


Syncopate

by starsandamorphinetoast



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Butt Plugs, Disappointment, F/M, Fingering, M/M, Multi, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Sex Shops, Sex Toys, Teasing, attention whore Andrew, needy Andrew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:04:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 90,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14321136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandamorphinetoast/pseuds/starsandamorphinetoast
Summary: Syncopation: The process of displacing 'expected' beats by anticipation or delay of one-half a beat.In which Fletcher takes an unexpected interest in Andrew's extracurriculars.  There are some places you just don't want to see the director you've been obsessing over for months.  A sex shop is one of those places.  Maybe this will have a pleasant outcome.  Probably not.





	1. First

There were things that Andrew Neiman did and things that he didn’t do.  Look at a pretty girl in a cafe and then spill his coffee down his shirt when she looks back?  That was something he did. Trip over his own feet and fall flat on the floor because he was distracted by some guys smile?  Also a thing he did. Touch himself in bed or the shower or the bathroom down the hall from the band room? Yes. He did that.  A lot. Occasional sex? Sure. Browsing the shelves in a sex shop in broad daylight? Nope. Definitely not; this was a first.

But there he was, flushing bright red and avoiding eye contact with the clerk, at two o’clock in the afternoon.  Despite knowing the time, he was checking his watch incessantly. Call time was five, and he had been late the day before.  Making the mistake two days in a row would be a disaster. Although he was approaching the point where he didn’t mind making Fletcher angry anymore.  Obviously it wasn’t good for his career, because a man of Fletcher’s temperament wouldn’t hesitate to make him a permanent page-turner. But it happened so often he was past the part where it made him upset.  

It wasn’t embarrassment or shame or even anger anymore when Fletcher got upset with him.  It was anxiety. He could never let his guard down; he could never relax. Even if he did everything right, showed up on time, played at the right tempo, kept track of all his music, didn’t cause disruptions in class, no matter what, Fletcher always found something to bitch at him about.  And any time he wasn’t bitching, he was being overly nice. To an unsettling degree. And then out of nowhere, yelling at him again. Most of any free time he had he spent thinking about Fletcher. Of course he had to chalk that up to anxiety about screwing up; for his own sanity, he had to believe that was why.  He seemed to enjoy tormenting Andrew more when he wasn’t expecting it. Well now he was always expecting it, and maybe that’s why Fletcher had been so tense lately. Maybe Andrew had been his go to when he needed to blow off steam. Maybe he picked him specifically because he looked like he could take a beating every couple of days and bounce back, just as naive as before and ready for another slap.  And now the system was broken. Maybe that’s why he brought in Connolly. He needed a new kid to break. But even with Connolly in the band, he focused his energy and his anger on him. 

Today, after their morning rehearsal, Nicole had sent him a lengthy text explaining just how furious she was with him and detailing exactly why he was a total prick, then finishing off her monologue with the declaration that she would be deleting him and blocking him on all social outlets known to man.  It hurt more than it should have, considering he was the one who dumped her, and referencing her lack of talent and purpose as a reason. He had been keeping himself so busy, increasingly so now that he’d broken up with her. He really had liked her, and losing her was a blow. But it was the only logical response to the situation.  He didn’t have the time to have a girlfriend, and when he had any time, he didn’t have the focus or the energy to have a girlfriend. Not to mention he was distracted by someone else. 

He spent twenty minutes tapping out an apology, spanning so much space on his screen he had to scroll to reread it before hitting send.  And nothing happening. And hitting send. And realizing that she had blocked him. Tension had built all of rehearsal, and then the text, and then typing a response, and then no tension release.  He wasn’t able to talk to Nicole. He certainly wasn’t able to address Fletcher and get mad at him for giving him so much shit. He could go practice, and really he should have. If anything was a tension release, it was drumming.  But that said, he was so on edge that he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to reach that point by playing. It would just get worse and worse and he would just get more irritable. His thought then was an entirely different form of release.  Maybe then he could stop being so high strung. Maybe then he could focus. 

He was walking back to his dorm when he decided he needed something to eat, choosing a different left turn and winding around the city streets to his usual pizza joint.  But as he was about to walk in, the bright purple and flashy sign across the street, about three doors up, caught his eyes.  _ The Buzz.  _  That was a new storefront.  Damn if he wasn’t intrigued.  Before he even knew what he was doing, he was walking in, cringing at how loud the bell above the door was.  

He kept his head down, hands behind his back, not wanting even to breathe, let alone pick anything up to look at it.  The lighting wasn’t even low-key in here. Why would they make him suffer this embarrassment under sterile fluorescent lighting?  

The bell rang again.  He didn’t look up. Even so, he tuned in.  The calculated, clicking, heavy steps of someone wearing dress shoes with a hard heel.  A man, judging by the pitch of an exhaled sigh as he began walking up the aisle behind him.   He tried to pretend that the man didn’t sound like Fletcher. He probably didn’t. He probably sounded like any other man sounds when he walks and sighs.  There was no reason for him to be projecting Fletcher’s attributes onto random people in sex shops. Or maybe there was a reason, but no valid explanation to why Fletcher was the forefront of his mind as he was looking at a wide array of sex toys. 

He stopped walking when he approached a portion of the aisle dedicated to plugs.  Plugs of all different sizes and materials. His interest was piqued now. Somehow he knew before he had even really thought about it, that this was what he would buy, if anything.

The footsteps from the aisle back rounded the corner, approaching him.  He inhaled and held the breath, waiting for him to pass. But he didn’t pass.  He slowed and stood there, and out off the corner of his eye, he could see the silhouette of a shoulder clad in black.  His heart started racing before he even heard him speak his name. 

“Well if it isn’t Andrew Neiman.”  Fletcher drawled, amused grin audible in his voice.  

Andrew winced and turned around slowly.  The realization that this was really happening hit him so much harder when he came face to face with the man who stood there grinning like a shark faced with a lone fish in open ocean.  “Oh god.” He breathed. What else could he say? What was he expected to say in this situation?

“So now I know what you do between rehearsals.  Is this why you stumble in looking fucked out, drenched in sweat, and flushing like a virgin?”  

He took a couple steps back but found himself met with the hooks on the aisle wall instead of an escape route.  “I...I can’t believe this.” he groaned, shaking his head and looking down at the floor. “Seriously, the only time I’ve ever been in a place like this and you walk in?”  Fletcher could have ignored him. He could have walked by and not said a word. Why was he tormenting him even now, outside of class, in such an inappropriate place? Could he not do anything in peace?

Fletcher chuckled and crossed his arms.  “Don’t worry about it. What do you think I’m gonna do?  Drop you from the band for being a sex fiend?”

“Humiliate me for the rest of the time I know you?”  He offered up, hands finding his pockets as a remedy for their trembling.

The man just laughed again.  “Well if I mention having seen you here, everyone will know I was here of my own accord.  Does that sound like something I’d tell the entire band?”

No.  It didn’t.  But it was something that he now knew.  Nobody goes into a sex shop prepared to see someone they know, and anyone would be embarrassed by it.  Even Fletcher. “Guess not.” He said finally, clearing his throat and looking left, then right, then back down at the floor.  “Maybe we should both get back to shopping and stay out of each other’s way.” 

Fletcher shrugged and leaned against a portion of the wall.  “I’m pretty indecisive about what I’m buying here today.” He began.  Why the fuck was he trying to have a casual conversation about this? What was happening?  “I’m here buying a gift for someone.”  
Andrew looked up, accidentally making eye contact with him for the first time since he walked in.  Now he couldn’t look away. “That’s...cool.” He murmured awkwardly. What the fuck else was he supposed to say?  His cheeks grew warmer and warmer, the thought of Fletcher using anything he bought here with another person was overwhelmingly graphic in his mind.

“What about you?” 

Shit.  He was doing that thing again.  Anytime Fletcher acted nice, there was no doubt he was going to use it against him somehow, to manipulate him, or as leverage, to embarrass him.  “Just...browsing? Like I said, I’ve never been anywhere like this before.” 

Fletcher held the eye contact with him just as intensely and it felt like a physical heat boring into his head.  “Oh, yeah?” He said. His voice was so soft when he spoke to him alone, whenever he wasn’t yelling obscenities at him or throwing furniture his way.  “So you’re new to the scene? Looking for something to use with a girlfriend?” 

“No, I don’t have a-” He answered without thinking, and then recoiled.  What an intensely personal question. As if Fletcher had any need to know what he was buying or who he intended to use it with.  This was so outrageously inappropriate. “Look, why can’t we just go back to shopping? Separately? Without conversation, and then pretend this never happened?”

He stepped closer to him.  Andrew’s instinct was to back up, but there was nowhere to go.  Maybe that was a motivator, because when he realized there was nowhere to back up, he stepped forward instead.  A smile grew on Fletcher’s face; not a pleasant smile, more predatory. Unsettling. “What are you getting? What do you want to get?”  

Andrew blinked and finally broke eye contact, looking down at the floor and shrugging.  “I don’t... I don’t know. I’m just browsing.” 

“What are you browsing for?”  He knelt in front of the racks he had been looking at.  “Something along these lines, huh?” He picked up a medium size, black, silicone plug.  

Andrew choked on his air and stepped back in the other direction, aching to get out of this situation and this store forever.  But he couldn’t just run away. What kind of person would he be if he just ran away? “I guess. Yeah. I was looking at...those.”  

Fletcher stood back up.  “How’s this one, do you think?  Look like something you’d like? Good size?”  

“Yes.”  he said without hesitation, meeting his eyes again.

Fletcher smirked and took the item up to the counter.  He laid it down and got out his credit card to pay for it.  He asked the clerk if they did gift wrapping. They did. And so she did.  She put the package in some white tissue paper, put that into a black gift bag, trimmed the top of the bag with bright purple paper, and handed it to him.  Andrew stood there, in shock and confusion. What was he even supposed to make of all this? 

He got his answer when Fletcher turned back around and walked slowly up to him, handing him the bag with a wink and a smile before retreating, leaving the store empty handed. 


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Experimentation and rehearsal. A much shorter chapter, because it's a transitional chapter.

What the fuck?  What the fuck? He stood there in shock for probably longer than he should have, and only left because he noticed the clerk starting to seem uncomfortable in what little clear vision he had.  He stumbled out of the shop, having completely forgotten about pizza, and headed back to his dorm on autopilot, totally lost to the world. 

Next thing he knew, he was sitting on his bed holding the toy out of it’s package.  It was, in fact, the sort of item he had gone in for. Not that he knew that. He had one time asked Nicole if she wanted to try using any toys or anything and she quickly turned that idea down.  Now he realized that this was what he had in mind when he’d asked. He swallowed nervously and sat the toy down on his desk, so close to his bed in this cramped space that he scarcely even had to move to place it there. 

It had warmed up so much as spring had rolled around, and the minimal space made the stuffy air even more suffocating.  Off came his shirt and on went the AC unit which was so old and shitty that the space became like a reverberation room of whirring and sputtering and it had bothered him so much at the beginning of the year that he’d suffered through the heat and cold no matter what, but he just couldn't right now.  He was still flushed and bothered from his interaction with Fletcher, and he couldn’t see that feeling going away for a long while. His heart was still racing.

Back to the object in question.  It was what he’d gone there to get, even if it had been on a whim.  He’d wanted to try something like this for a while, but had just been too self conscious or too busy to ever get around to it, especially after Nicole so strongly recoiled at the mere idea of it.   Now, on the other hand, he had been given the means with which to do it, and by someone he was clearly attracted to. But this could not be a mere suggestion, or a legitimate interest. Fletcher couldn’t possibly have given him this for some wholesome reason.  What wholesome reason was there for a sixty something year old man to give his nineteen year old student a butt plug anyway?

But either way, it was interesting.  He undressed further, avoiding catching sight of his own reflection in the mirror, and picked it back up.  He looked at the clock. 3:34 He had under two hours to get off, get food, and get the fuck back to rehearsal.  He grabbed a bottle of lube from the top drawer of his desk. This was unreal. 

But it certainly felt real. 

* * *

He got to practice barely a minute before five.  Tanner rolled his eyes at him and Connolly paid him no mind, overly friendly and goodnatured creature that he was, conversing among other students while he sat on the stool.   _ His stool. _

Fletcher walked in before Andrew could even sit down.  “Look who’s on time today!” He jibed. It was discomforting that he was so quick to make jokes, as soon as he walked in, after what had happened just a few hours earlier.  “As dishelved as ever. Do you own any shirts that actually fit?” 

Andrew didn’t say a word, just sat down next to Tanner behind Connolly.  

“Not so fast.”  He shook his head, hanging his jacket on the hook and taking his place at the front of the class.  “Let’s hear it, hmm? Neiman?” 

Andrew looked up from his bag, then over at Tanner, who just shrugged, and then to Connolly who was slowly getting up off the stool.  He hadn’t played in class since Fletcher had made Ryan the core drummer. He hadn’t even practiced between rehearsals, obviously, and Fletcher knew that.  Christ. Was this the motive? Distract him, fuck up his practicing, make him play, and embarrass him in front of everyone? Make Connolly the permanent core?  Ruin his career?

He got up and moved to the drumset.  “Okay, yeah.” He cleared his throat and grabbed his sticks and put his music on the stand, not taking his eyes off Fletcher, waiting for direction, not willing to screw anything up at all for fear of being humiliated.  

For once, practice went fine.  He paid extra close attention to everything.  He had the charts memorized, so he watched Fletcher closely, every slight tempo change, every movement, every moment of eye contact with him.  The one time he did screw up was a brief falter the first time during the rehearsal that Fletcher met his eyes. His grip on his stick loosened, it slipped to the floor, Fletcher lifted an eyebrow and cut the band off.  “Can’t keep a grasp on the shaft there Neiman?”

He flushed and grabbed it off the floor quickly and sighed.  “Yeah, sorry. I’m...I’m fine.” 

Fletcher just smirked.  “Pickup to 46.” 

Rehearsal went on and there were no other mistakes on his part.  Couple of trumpet players got a reaming, but he was left untouched.

When the end of practice rolled around, and people were getting ready to go, Andrew leaned down to put his folder and sticks back in his bag.  Footsteps were approaching him, and they were the same ones that approached him in the store earlier. He glanced up and forced a smile. 

“Enjoying your gift?” He asked lowly.  

Andrew cleared his throat and looked back down, zipping up his backpack.  “I...uh, yeah. It’s...good.” He murmured nervously. Why the fuck would he ask him this now, in front of everyone?  Not that anyone was really paying attention. Tanner gave them a weird look and then hurriedly left at the cue of a look from Fletcher.  

“Are you,”  He met Andrew’s eyes as he stood up and faced him.  “Wearing it now?” 

Andrew’s eyes widened and he swallowed, blinking, caught off guard.  It was a very ‘deer in the headlights’ situation, and he couldn’t seem to remember what a deer was supposed to do next.  “I...no?” 

Fletcher leaned just a bit forward.  Everyone had cleared out. “Well, why not?” 


	3. Third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew contemplates his options moving forward with the knowledge of Fletcher's obvious interest in him. Lets also acknowledge that Andrew has some body image issues, but he's working on overcoming that. Rehearsal is a little different today, but mostly just because of one very poignant reason. And it's a very distracting reason.

Running away was not a noble thing to do, but Andrew wasn’t exactly known to be bursting with dignity.  When his eyes had widened to a point that they couldn’t widen any more, he slung his bag over his shoulder and fled the room, around the corner and into the bathroom.  Empty. He splashed some water on his face, wiped it off on his shirt, stared himself down in the mirror. What the fuck was happening? 

The light above the sink whirred and flickered, and his own reflection grew even more distorted than it usually did when he looked at himself for this long.  This must be some sort of mortifying nightmare. But if it were a nightmare, wouldn’t the feeling of fear outweigh the feeling of arousal on some sort of metaphorical scale?  He should be running straight to the Dean’s office to report Fletcher for sexual harassment. But that thought occured in a very brief passing moment. The bottom line, he liked this.  He hated that he liked it, but he liked it nonetheless. He was a toy as much as the plug was, and there was something about it. Something sickening and stomach turning, but strangely pleasant all the same.  

Who was he?  What had gone so wrong that he was so drawn to this predatory creep of a director?  He could psychoanalyze himself until he bored holes into this dingy mirror, but it wouldn’t do any good.  Even if he came to some conclusion, chalked it all up to a childhood trauma, told himself it was the result of neglect and complacency in his upbringing, it didn’t make a goddamn difference. He would still want it. He would still want to be taken advantage of. And now he didn’t have to look far to get that kind of attention. Gone were the moments of questioning Fletcher’s motives.  Now he was questioning something else entirely, like how far the man was willing to let this go.

* * *

The next morning call time was nine.  Andrew woke up an hour early and forced himself to choke down a granola bar and bottle of water.  He had a bad habit of only eating when he was hungry, eating whatever junk he was craving, and eating way too much of it, regret to quickly follow.  

He got dressed, putting on his usual jeans and converse, and then hesitating before grabbing a navy tee-shirt from the bottom of his drawer.  The shirt was a few years old and he hadn’t worn it much. It had been a gift from his uncle, who was so mind-numbingly stupid and ignorant of the preferences and sizes of everyone but his eldest son, that he’d just bought him a shirt in Travis’ size.  He was obviously not the athletic build that Travis was, and he was taller, so the shirt had been far more snug than would be considered ‘his size’. Not only that, but he tended to wear clothing of one size up as a rule, preferring to hide himself under layers of over sized clothing to deflect personal insecurities.  

He put the shirt on and hesitantly looked at himself in the mirror.  Not horrible at first glance. It fit far more snugly than he could ever possibly be comfortable with, but in all actuality, he looked decent in it.  Once that conclusion had been drawn, he quickly walked away from the mirror knowing that the longer he looked at it, the worse his self image would get.  He grabbed his bag and packed it, and was just about to leave before stopping, noticing the plug sitting in the back corner of his desk. 

Hadn’t Fletcher insinuated that he wanted him to wear it in rehearsal?  Christ, but could he do that? It was pretty stable once it was in. He’d noticed it didn’t come out easy.  It was a doable task, to keep it in all rehearsal. What did he have to lose? 

He walked into the rehearsal room around 8:50, ten minutes early.  He felt uncomfortable, on display, like everyone knew. His gait must be affected.  His hands must be shaking. His face must be flushed. Nonetheless, he weaved his way through the people that were slowly beginning to file in and took his seat behind the drumset, leaving the actual stool open for Connolly, who hadn’t showed up yet.  Connolly was, after all, still core. That was, unless Fletcher had changed his mind about things in the past few days. Ryan hadn’t played at all during last night’s rehearsal. He’d assumed that was just because Fletcher was trying to fuck with him. 

Tanner walked in, sighed, pulled another chair up and flopped into it unceremoniously.  He’d been walking around dejectedly ever since Overbrook. Andrew tried to keep himself calm, level, like he wasn’t sitting here with a plug in his ass waiting for his director to come in and notice.  The noisiness of the room didn’t help his nerves; cases hitting chairs, mouth pieces squeaking onto instruments, buzzing, warm up scales, the pianist tapping out the first few bars of the piece they’d been working on, the door.  

The door swinging open and Fletcher kicking it shut again, not looking at anyone as he hung up his hat and sat his bag down.  Andrew held his breath, watching him as he moved once more to the front of the room like always, looking down at the music as he placed it on his stand.  There was still no sign of Connolly. Fletcher cleared his throat and looked up finally, keeping his eyes mostly on the band. “Alright gang, let’s open with ‘Now’s The Time’.  From the top.” 

Instruments were at the ready.  Andrew looked to the door, then to Tanner, who just shrugged.  When he looked back to Fletcher, the man was looking at the rhythm section.  “Well?” He said. “One of you girls gonna fucking play for me today?” Andrew looked back at Tanner, who was slowly inching forward to move to the stool.  He saw the moment of opportunity, and jumped up himself instead, and then lowering himself down onto the stool. He let out an unintentional noise as he did so, the plug more noticeable in this pose, legs spread, posture straight, his breath caught in his throat and he looked again to Fletcher who met his eyes and raised an eyebrow.  Andrew felt the corner of his mouth turn upward into a small but obvious smirk. A similar smile spread across Fletcher’s face at the sight of it. He knew. Oh God, oh Christ, he knew. 

He shakily grabbed his folder out of his bag and spread the music across his stand.  Picked up his sticks.  

Downbeat. 

He was rushing at the start; Fletcher cut off and crossed his arms, said nothing, and stared at him for a moment.  He physically felt a bead of sweat forming on his forehead, and his blush grew hotter and deeper. Fletcher held up his hand again.  “From the top.” 

He made the correction.  They played on and on, halfway through the piece, before Connolly opened the door, loudly and without care, and walked back to the drums.  

Fletcher cut off again.  

“Come on man, I’m here, move.”  Ryan said to Andrew. 

Andrew looked up at him and lifted an eyebrow.  “No, I’m not moving. I’m playing the piece right now.”

“It’s my part, man, move.”  

“You walk in here twenty minutes late,” Fletcher chimed in from the front of the room.  “And you think you’re in any place to lay claim to this part?” He stood up, laughing and shaking his head.  “What the fuck has gone wrong in your head, you piece of shit mick?” 

Ryan turned towards him.  “Traffic was-” 

“Oh, traffic was bad?”  

“Yeah.”  

“Getting here from where?” Fletcher asked. 

Ryan hesitated, looked around the room, then back at Fletcher.  “Uptown.”    


“How far uptown?”  

“Twenty blocks.”

Fletcher lowered his eyebrows.  “You think I have any leeway for some stupid paddy who thinks twenty blocks isn’t walking distance?  For some dumb fuck who walks in here with fresh fucking hickies on his neck and thinks I’m gonna believe he’s late because the traffic was bad?  Congratulations, Neiman, you’re back on core.” 

Andrew looked down at the ground, feeling it was customary to hide the grin blossoming across his face.  What he should have been taking away from this situation was that Connolly was being punished for being late.  But that wasn’t the thought that entered his mind.  _ He likes me better.   _

He played the rest of the rehearsal and things went relatively smoothly. 

People started packing up their instruments.  Connolly hightailed it out of there before Fletcher could say anything else to him.  Andrew eyed him, but he was rifling through a stack of charts and he couldn’t seem to catch his gaze, so he packed up.  

Just as he was about to walk out of the room, he heard his name called, his first name, quieter than usual, almost as though it were an afterthought. 

He paused and turned quickly, ignoring how the abrupt movement startled him and caused his body to clench around the toy, and walked back into the room, up to Fletcher who still hadn’t looked up from his papers.  He stood there for a moment without speaking or being spoken to and then finally cleared his throat. “Yeah?” 

“Stick around, there’s a pressing matter I want to talk to you about.”  He said. “My office. Take a seat and I’ll be in in a moment.”


	4. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More interaction this time. Verbal, emotional, physical. Plans are made.

He sat down in the office, back to the door, facing the chair that Fletcher habitually sat in.  And the desk. And the black gift bag with purple tissue paper trimming the top that sat on the desk.  The very very familiar black bag. He was curious about it, and no doubt that was part of the reason his heart rate had increased exponentially.  He glanced over his shoulder. Fletcher was still looking down at his stand. He hesitated for a long moment, and then, overtaken by his own curiosity, leaned forward and gently pushed the tissue paper away from the edges of the bag.  

No sooner than he had, and before he could even see anything, he felt a hand grabbing the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck and pulling him back.  

“Ah!”  He slowly leaned back, feeling a spark of arousal at the mere contact.  Fletcher hadn’t touched him since that slap in the face the first day. It was so fucking pathetic how much he wanted to be touched, craved it, like air.  As he sat back down in the chair, Fletcher released his hair and gently but firmly smoothed his hand across the back of his neck. Andrew would have fucking collapsed if he wasn’t sitting down.  

Fletcher closed the door and walked around the desk, sitting down in his chair and letting out a sigh, reclining and folding his hands over his stomach.  “Did I tell you to come in here and touch stuff?” 

Andrew hesitated, looked behind him at the door, looked back to him.  “N-no?” 

“No.  What did I tell you to do?”  

His skin was hot, muscles tense, heart racing.  He tapped his fingers on his thigh unconsciously, trying to keep himself from freaking out and making a fool of himself.  But really, he was concerned about dignity? Now? “To come in here and sit down and wait for you.”

“Yes.”  A rogue smile wormed it’s way onto the man’s face, accentuating the deep wrinkles of his skin.  “What makes you think this is for you?” 

Andrew blinked and looked down at his dirty shoes on the floor, shuffling his feet uncomfortable.  “I don't uh...I don’t know. It’s the same bag, and it’s the only thing on the desk and you told me to come in here, I just...I just assumed.”  

Fletcher nodded, neutrality taking residence in his expression, which was unsettling to say the least.  “It’s not yours.” 

Andrew nodded.  

“Look at me.”  

He slowly looked up from his feet to meet Fletcher’s eyes and his breath hitched, caught in his throat, his hands ceased their tapping, clenched in his lap.  

“It’s mine, but it is still for you.”  Fletcher leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands folded beneath his chin.  “Do you understand?” 

He studied the lines of his face, tried to find some meaning past what was obvious, tried to think of anything else he could mean.  “I think so.” He mumbled. 

Fletcher nodded and reached forward, pushing the bag across the desk closer to him.  “Open it.” 

Andrew swallowed.  He looked at the bag briefly, then back to Fletcher.  “I...I don’t understand. I’m...why did you start this?  I’m...I’m totally lost.” And despite being in a near state of panic, his eyes darted frantically back to the bag.  Curiosity and eagerness were battling confusion in his mind, and the result was nausea and a stress headache. 

“Do you want it or not?”  Fletcher asked. 

And it was very clearly not a question of whether or not he wanted a physical object, but whether he wanted this situation.  

He cleared his throat.  He looked up at him once more, and then let out a breath. reaching out, taking the bag.

Fletcher’s smile grew and he sat back again, watching as Andrew turned the item over in his hands. 

“Handcuffs.”  He said softly, voice breaking as he spoke.  This meant something. This meant it wasn’t just the control of his sex life, or influence in it, but participation.  He wanted him. He wanted to handcuff him. How much did he want? 

“Something you might be interested in?” 

“Yes.”  He answered before he had even given himself the chance to think about it further.  His neck was still tingling from the contact before, the hair still standing on end, his head spinning, and he would be interested in anything that would make Fletcher touch him again.  “Yes, it’s definitely something I’m interested in.” 

Fletcher nodded.  “Good. I have a few other similar items as well.”  He stood up. 

Andrew watched him stand up with the same sense of zeal that he’d been watching him for months, revamped by new anticipation, tensions running high.  He stood and Fletcher pushed forward into his space. Andrew didn’t retreat at first. He tried to be bold. But Fletcher kept pushing forward, laid his hand on his chest, cornered him against the wall.  His ears were ringing so loudly and distractingly that he didn’t even hear Fletcher speak before feeling so compelled to lurch forward and kiss him, quickly, unsurely, more an invitation than an initiation.  

Fletcher just smirked and reached up, grabbing a handful of his hair and jerking his head roughly to the side and Andrew whimpered; he fucking whimpered.  

“What do you think you are to me, some sweet little pixie angel or something?  You’re a plaything, Neiman.” He whispered against his neck. “You have been from the start.  You’re my plaything.” 

Andrew let out a long shuddering breath, eyes closed.  “I know.” He finally managed to get out. 

“Good.”  He pressed his lips against his neck, and then his teeth, biting a mark into the sensitive, goosebump covered skin below his ear.  “Go home.” He let go of him and stepped back, no longer giving him any attention, as though he was nothing but a nuisance now.

The seconds on the clock went by, the rhythmic ticking echoing in his head louder than even the drone of his own breathing.  “What?” He asked, but didn’t hear himself.

“Go home.  Practice. I don’t have time for you right now.”  He pulled a notepad out of the drawer of the desk, pulled out a felt tip pen, and carefully penned his address on it.  “I’ll see you at 10.” 

He didn’t remember taking the paper, nor did he remember hurrying downstairs.  He did remember the plug shifting nearly out when he was about halfway back to his dorm and he held his breath, looking around at all of the people’s faces, faces he presumed to be staring, faces he presumed to be judgemental.  They probably weren’t paying him any mind. Why would they? 

He took a long shower.  The bathrooms were empty.  It was the middle of the day, so he was alone in the hall.  He’d taken the plug out in his room, not wanting to take it into the unsanitary horror that was a shared bathroom of a boys hall.  Still, he found his hand absently reaching down. He kept his voice down and his eyes closed. He kept his movements slow, shallow, light, enough to be something, too little to be satisfying, the perfect amount of contact to make him want more.  And want more he did. 

10:00 PM; tonight, Friday night, Terrance Fletcher’s apartment in Brooklyn, at 10:00 PM.


	5. Fifth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew goes to Fletcher's house, which is as swanky and dramatic as the man himself. They have drinks. They have sex. 
> 
> Alcohol use.  
> Very explicit sex.

When Andrew showed up, at 10:05, he was on the latter end of tipsy. Taking the train had been a nightmare.  Too many switches. Too many people. But he had no doubt that if he tried to do this sober, he would vomit from nerves.  The alcohol in question, which had been some expensive bottle of whiskey, had been taken from his dad’s liquor cabinet while he had been at work.  He wouldn’t miss it. He probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone. Stealing alcohol from his father was easy; easy enough that he’d been doing it since he was fifteen.  

He got off the train, walked out of the station and onto the gentrified streets of Brooklyn.  Closed storefronts of specialty niche shops lined the streets, until he rounded a corner and found himself in a residential area.  He continued deeper and eventually turned down another street. He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket with a trembling hand and looked at the address, then up at the brownstone building, the front of which was trimmed in a few strands of ivy, barricaded by shrubbery, well kept; it was the only building who’s stoop was illuminated by the soft golden glow of the porch light, cast in an iron sconce.  

He swallowed and nervously raised his hand to knock on the door, but it opened before he had a chance to.  

There Fletcher stood, wearing those same black slacks and black shirt, shoes and jacket absent. “Shoes off by the door.”  He directed.

Andrew hurriedly complied as he stepped into the house, although he ended up having to grip the door frame too keep his balance.  Fletcher just scoffed and crossed his arms, waiting for Andrew to regain his footing. “Have a few drinks this evening, did you Neiman?”

“Mmhm.”  He agreed as he toed off his shoes and pushed them up against the wall with the side of his foot.  “Just a couple.” He cleared his throat and blinked, standing upright again and turning to face him.  

Fletcher smiled and closed the door now that Andrew was out of the way.  He took a step forward into his space. “Would you like to have a couple more?”  
  
“Yes.”  He agreed quickly and without thought.  Fletcher turned and walked through an archway.  Andrew watched him retreat and followed, more as an afterthought than an assumption he was invited to.  He found himself in a living room. The seating wasn’t pointed at a television like in his own apartment or in his dad’s house.  It was almost circular, two plush brown leather armchairs pointed at a matching leather sofa with a mahogany coffee table between them.  A rolling cart of some sort sat by a fireplace with an iron fender along the bottom, above a stone hearth. And that’s where Fletcher stood now.  

“What’s your taste?”  He asked lowly.

Andrew felt himself growing fonder and fonder by the minute.  Drinking had already diminished the sense of paranoia he generally felt around Fletcher and replaced it with a warmth in his chest.  Whether that warmth was a penchant for or an attraction to the man, he could not tell. But as for now, it was a warmth. How it manifested itself would come later.  “Um...high proof?” He wanted to be so much more drunk than he was. He still had the capacity for embarrassment. He didn’t want to feel embarrassed. Maybe he didn’t even want to remember what might happen tonight.  

Fletcher made a noise of amusement and pulled out a bottle on which Andrew could briefly read the name _Bruichladdich._ He didn’t know what that was, but he hoped it was comparable to Makers 46.  That’s what his dad usually had on hand, and for him, that was what he imagined to be a high proof liquor, at 47% alcohol.  

Fletcher poured a half glass of the whiskey for himself, and a little less than that for Andrew.  He set the glass, as well as a small glass bottle of coke on the coffee table, holding his own drink in his hand as he sat down.  “Have a seat.”

Andrew did so, on the sofa across from Fletcher, and picked the glass up, bringing it close to his face and recoiling slightly as his eyes began to water.  Christ, what was this, lighter fluid? He looked towards Fletcher again and found him to be sitting there with a smirk on his face.  Some illogical part of him wanted to wipe that smirk right off, so instead of sipping this unknown liquor or asking what it was, he looked him dead in the eye and drank the entirety of what was in the glass.  This only resulted in a coughing fit and him drinking most of the coke just to get the foul and aggressive taste out of his mouth.

The man just laughed at him once more.  “This is really more of a sipping whiskey, Andrew.”  He said between chuckles.

“What?”  

“It’s 92% alcohol, kid.  It’s a quadruple distilled Irish whiskey.  It’s not really a chugging kind of liquor.”  He said with another chuckle. “Maybe I should’ve assumed you didn’t know what you were asking for.”  

He let out a deep breath and nodded.  “Well...that’s a lot more than I’m used to.  I didn’t...I didn’t even know they made liquor this strong.”  Maybe he didn't know what he was asking for. 

A long moment passed, a pregnant silence, a deeply awkward pause.  Or maybe it was just awkward for him. Fletcher seemed as though not phased by anything, and maybe it wasn’t as long a pause as he thought.  He just stared at the floor, waiting for Fletcher to say something, say anything! He was the one who had invited him here! Why the hell wasn’t he initiating anything?  Why wasn’t he saying anything?

In the midst of his confusion fueled distraction, Fletcher had gotten up and crossed the room to the record player by the window, beneath which was an enormous collection of albums.  He pulled one out, but Andrew wasn’t watching. He was still looking down at the ornate burgundy rug that laid across the floor in the sitting area, biting his nails and feeling his mind going more and more fuzzy.  His foot began to tap, and he didn’t realize it was to the rhythm of the song that had begun playing until he was brought out of his stupor by a hand on his shoulder. “Cute.” He murmured.

“Mhmm.  Cute.” Fletcher responded.  The name of the song. “Basie.  Live in-”

“Budapest.  1970. How did you get this on vinyl?”   He asked, bewilderment back in his eyes as he looked up at the man, who had shifted forward once more, leaning against the arm of the sofa, hips and mid-section aligned with Andrew’s face and only about an inch away.

“Got a hold of it as soon as it was actually produced in ‘04.  Was kind of on the top of my list, seeing as I was actually at the show.” He answered, smiling down at him.

Andrew’s head swam pleasantly and each breath felt too shallow, as he leaned towards him, propping his elbows on the same sofa arm that Fletcher was practically sitting on at this point.  “That must’ve been awesome. How long were you in Budapest?”

“Few months.”  Fletcher replied, looking pleased as Andrew was seeming to grow more comfortable and more relaxed in the situation.  “I was a little older than you are now. Budapest was a good place for the kinds of things I was looking for.”

“Music?”  

“Among other things.”  

Andrew kept looking up at him and didn’t say much else, shifting closer to him until his arm was pressed fully and firmly against his thigh.  At the contact, Fletcher blinked slowly, then met his eyes with a smile. “So what do you have in mind for this evening?”

“I don't know.”  He shrugged, nervousness having faded at this point and been replaced with a level of drunkenness he had not yet known in his life.  

Fletcher nodded and stood, and Andrew very nearly whined at the loss of contact.  “Should we just have drinks?” He asked teasingly. “Couple drinks, listen to some music, and I’ll send you on your way?”  

Andrew stood on wobbly legs.  “No, I...I want-”

“So you do know what you want?”  

He ran a hand over his face and giggled in near embarrassment, but not quite embarrassment.  He was past embarrassment. “I... I guess I do.”

“And what is that, Andrew?”  

His breath hitched in his throat at the sound of his name and he walked towards him to the best of his ability, knowing that it was more of a stumble than a walk.  “I want...I want to be touched.” He said softly, and he should feel shame at being so blase about it, but he didn’t. “I want you to touch me. Like earlier in your office.”

Fletcher nodded, knowingly, mockingly, and stepped closer to him, reaching out and gently trailing his fingers across his neck once more.  “Like this?”

Andrew’s knees went weak and before he could even reach out to steady himself, Fletcher had reached out and placed a hand beneath his elbow, supporting him.  “Like this? And this’ll be all?”

“Well why did you invite me over?”  He asked.

“I wanted to fuck you.”  Fletcher said plainly. “And I figured it seems you’re wanting to get fucked.  I think it works out pretty well.”

Andrew met his eyes and for a moment was shocked by how blue and how bright they were up close, even in the low light of the few lamps in the room.  He couldn’t find words to say, and Fletcher was pulling him closer, which made any idea of speaking fall right out of his mind. The arm Fletcher wasn’t holding pushed forward and his hand landed on the man’s side, firm, black fabric stretched taut over his solid body.  Fletcher’s hand moved upwards from his neck and his fingers threaded through his hair and he pulled, new leverage allowing him to force Andrew to bare his neck, and Andrew felt no shame as a breathy moan escaped him.

Here was the end of his restraint.  He no longer had the ability to be Andrew Neiman, confused and bewildered student sitting uncomfortably in the lavish living room of his director.  He was much less and much more than that now.

As Fletcher’s lips and teeth found the sensitive skin of his neck once more, much more aggressively this time, much more insistently, Andrew’s hands grabbed wildly for anything, any part of him he could have access to.  He pulled at his shirt, grasped at his waist, held onto his shoulder to stay upright.

How they ended up in the bedroom upstairs was a blur to him, but here he was, on his back now.   _Where I belong_.  What kind of a thought was that?  He had no energy to answer that question right then and there.  Memories, faded and corrupted by his current state, flew to his mind of the last time he was on his back, the soft and supple skin of Nicole’s waist, his hand tangled in her long hair, her bashful eyes looking anywhere but at him while they _made love._  Now he was faced with quite the opposite.  There was nobody above him, but Fletcher stood at the foot of the bed.  Had he spoken? Was he expected to speak?

“Neiman!”  Came that accusatory voice, and the familiarity brought on a familiar feeling of arousal, stained with fear.  “Pay fucking attention, what’s the matter with you?”

Andrew blinked and sat up, ignoring the way it made the room spin.  “I...I’m sorry. What? What did you say?”

“I said get undressed.”  

Andrew hurriedly tugged at his shirt, disliking the way it clung to tightly to him anyway, and threw it over the edge of the bed.  Fletcher rolled his eyes and picked it up, draping it over the nightstand. Andrew lifted his hips and pushed his jeans down to his ankles, and Fletcher, apparently impatient, pulled them off, along with his socks, folded them, and placed them with his shirt.  

“Boxers off, hands and knees.”  He directed, and again, Andrew complied.  He couldn’t think of a situation during which he would immediately do anything he said, at least not now, not in this state.  Under any other circumstances he would be flushed in embarrassment, like he always did when Nicole saw him any way other than fully dressed.  Until her, nobody had ever seen him in that way. Nobody had ever touched him that way; and maybe that’s why it felt so uncomfortable and forced.  She wouldn’t let him drink when they were going to have sex, something about it being inappropriate and kind of sad to need to drink just to feel comfortable being with another person.  Well, he was an uncomfortable and kind of sad person. There was no doubt that sex with her would have been more enjoyable with a little alcohol, on both of their parts.

He looked over his shoulder to see Fletcher pulling a couple things out of a drawer, but his back was turned and it was all concealed.  When he came back to the bed, a hand was placed on Andrew’s back, fingers curling over his hip, and he instinctively pushed back into it, feeling himself smile finally at the sight of the same from him.  

“Comfortable?”  He asked.

“Yes.”

Fletcher nodded, and there was something mocking in his eyes and tone as he said “Well this is kind of how I always imagine you.”  Not that Andrew minded. It may have been a little insulting, but he also allowed himself to believe it was doting as well. After all, Fletcher did keep buying him gifts and giving him drinks.  That was doting. Maybe he was being soft on him for a reason. That was a possibility, right?

He took the hard slap to his ass as an answer, and a negative one.  He leaned forward and hummed lowly, eyes falling shut.

“How long did you keep the plug in this morning?”  

“From when I left my dorm to when I got back after rehearsal.”  He replied quietly.

“Oh yeah?” Fletcher’s hand moved slowly, up and down his back and side, and he couldn’t decide if it felt soothing or threatening.  “And what did you do when you got back to your room?”

Andrew hesitated and swallowed.  “I showered.”

“And?”

“A-and...touched myself.”  His head drooped as he spoke, the demeaning way he was being spoken to starting to be noticeable, not necessarily in a bad way. His hand itched to touch himself now.  “But I didn’t-”

“You didn’t climax.”

“No.”  

“Without even being told.  Good.” There was a snapping sound and he glanced over his shoulder to see the blurry image of Fletcher pulling on a latex glove and pouring lube into his palm.  Andrew turned away again, but the anticipation was getting to him. He lowered his body, pressed forward to grind into the mattress, only to have an arm hooked under his torso which pulled him back up.  “Fucking behave. You’ll get it when I decide to give it.”

All he could manage was to nod.  

It was all the more difficult to hold still now, with a slicked finger gently touching and prodding at his ass, until slowly he slid it in.  There was a lot less resistance than usual after having had the plug in for about five hours earlier. Still he let out a noise of revelry, which seemed to spur Fletcher on because the hand on his back pressed more firmly into him and he pushed the finger deeper still.

“Communicate.”  Fletcher said simply.  

He faltered, paused, unsure of what to say.  When was he ever sure of what to say? “Communicate what?”  He asked finally.

Fletcher was pressing his finger in and pulling it out, establishing a slow but steady tempo.  Andante. “How things are, what you want, what you like.” He listed. “Not that I’m going to take your desires into account.”  He sneered, but it felt insincere. It sounded like a lie.

“I...I want more.”  He whispered.

Fletcher gently added a finger and Andrew smiled through his moan at the confirmation that he was lying.  Maybe this cold and harsh exterior was a lie. Maybe not. Either way, he would be the one to find out. Fletcher picked him.  Fletcher invited him here. He didn’t have to ask for any of this; it was offered. The idea that he meant anything to him, even if it was just as a toy, was arousing in and of itself, never mind the situation at hand.  

“Deeper.”  
  
“Greedy.”  But he complied, pressing his fingers further into him.  “Know that I am only asking what you want tonight because I’m aware this is your first time with a man.”  

Andrew’s hips moved back into the touch.  “How do you know that?”

“Oh, please.”  Fletcher chuckled.  “It’s clear. Pretty little virgin ass, how awkward you are about all of this when you aren’t drunk, and the fact that you didn’t ask for it.”  

Andrew furrowed his brow.  “What do you mean? You’re the one that came onto me.”

He let out a breath of laughter and shook his head.  “Only because it was obvious you didn’t have the balls.”   He smoothed his hand over his hip and set up camp, holding his hips steady as he worked back into that rhythm.  “But the uncomfortable eye contact, the lingering after class, the _constant_ fucking blushing any time I said your name or looked your direction, for the love of god you may as well have been wearing a big sandwich board that read “Fuck me please!””

“Well please do.”  He murmured.

Fletcher scoffed.  “You aren’t ready for that yet, genius.  I need you to be able to sit on the goddamn stool tomorrow.”  

Time went on.  Eventually a third finger was added, and banter was moved to the back burner.  He was more concerned with the more pressing matters, so to speak. He had faded into a mess of a human being, as though he hadn’t always been that, and it took every ounce of self control to keep his hands off himself and his hips raised.  He had pulled a pillow closer to himself and placed it under his chest, using it for support, as he had lost the strength to hold himself up with his arms. The side of his face was pressed into the mattress, hands tangled in his own hair as Fletcher continued on, agonizingly slowly.  

“Please..” He breathed, eyes squeezed shut.

“Please what?”  Fletcher demanded.

Andrew let out a choked sob.  “Please fuck me.” He whispered.  “I’m ready, I swear. Please.”

Fletcher’s movements paused and Andrew held his breath, waiting for something, for anything.  Then he pulled them all the way out and he felt the loss sharply, before hearing the snap of the glove being pulled off.  He looked over his shoulder and watched as Fletcher threw it away before casually undressing. The man hung his belt over the door knob, folded his shirt meticulously and placed it on the dresser.  He even smirked at him through all of this. His trousers were folded with just as much leisure, carelessly, purposefully.

“Christ.”  He sighed, pressing his forehead into his hands.  

No sooner than he had was Fletcher’s hand back and grasping at his hair, pulling his head up again.  “On your back.” Fletcher instructed. “Edge of the bed. Now.” Anticipation got the best of him and he hurried to turn over and scoot to the edge of the bed. The room span horribly and he had to close his eyes against the movement.  He didn’t have much of a moment for recovery before Fletcher was pulling at his knees, pushing his legs up. “You are one awkward looking kid. I mean your legs are ridiculously fucking long.”

Andrew barely heard any of that.

Fletcher was standing above him, hips centered between his legs, rolling on a condom, slicking his cock up with lube, meeting his fucking eyes.  This was how he was going to do it? He was going to look him in the eye and fuck him? The thought that this would be the position had never crossed his mind.  Hands and knees had seemed like the only possibility.

But this was it; he knew for sure this would be it when Fletcher pressed into him, slowly, with much more care than he would have expected.  But then again, he had mentioned he was being careful because it was his first time. Either way, he was thankful, because this was undoubtedly the most he had ever taken before.  His own fingers and the plug didn’t compare in the slightest. He couldn’t even make a noise, just let his head loll to the side and eyes fall shut.

Once he was fully inside him, he paused and Andrew inhaled sharply.  Fletcher responded to this disapprovingly. “You have to fucking breathe the whole time, Neiman.”  

“I-”  He began to speak, but stopped, realizing that he wasn’t capable of producing words that weren’t an octave higher than usual.  Instead, he just nodded.

“How is this?”  He asked lowly, the only indication that he was affected at all being the tightened grip on his leg.  

Andrew just nodded.

The answer to his wordless agreement was wordless movement.  A strangled hum escaped him and his hands scrambled for something to hold onto, and he settled for the duvet.  “F-fuck.”

Again, Fletcher established a rhythm, still slow, still not enough despite how much this was.  His eyes flew open again, and he was met with the realization that Fletcher was looking straight at him.

Fletcher smiled wolfishly.  “Hm?”

Andrew faltered, then offered up a request.  “Faster.”

The man didn’t hesitate in fulfilling that request.  

The sound of his own heart beating was deafening.  Every time he closed his eyes, Fletcher’s fingers dug into his hip painfully to remind him to “ _fucking look at me, moron.”_ He steadily thrust into him faster and faster until Andrew couldn’t control himself enough to stop himself from begging to climax, begging for anything, any contact to his desperate cock.  

Yet another smirk crossed that face that still looked relatively unphased save a flush that could simply be from exertion.  A brief nod.

That’s all he needed for his ready hand to fly to his cock, matching the rhythm, matching his tempo, meeting his eyes, and that was that.  He was obnoxiously loud when he came across his own stomach and chest, eyes pinching shut, free hand curling into a fist by his side.

When his vision stopped being hazy, Fletcher was pulling out of him.  He looked up at him through hooded eyes, and then at the condom as he pulled it off, the realization that he’d missed watching Fletcher climax hitting him.   _Damn._   He’d wanted to see that happen.  But then again, wasn’t the fact that it happened just after he had finished flattering? He felt like it was, but he couldn’t quite place why.  

Fletcher didn’t say a word to him, instead throwing the condom away.  “I’m showering. You can see yourself out.”


	6. Fugue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fugue: A short theme introduced in one voice alone, then in others with imitation and characteristic development as the piece progresses.
> 
> In which Andrew makes mistakes and a friend. But as usual, things do not go according to Andrew's plan.

“Wake up, Andrew.” 

The words were too loud and he groaned, hating the dry and scratchy way that his mouth and throat felt.  He opened his eyes and quickly shut them again against the light from the living room window. 

_ Wait.   _

He opened his eyes again and blinked until he could see his dad crouched in front of the sofa, expression confused more than concerned.  “Dad?” 

“What are you doing here?  What’s the matter? Did something happen?”  His dad peppered him with questions, and Andrew just forced himself to sit up and pretend he didn’t feel like he could hurl at any moment.  

His stomach was churning and his head was throbbing with the headache he should have expected.  He had probably had four times what he usually had to drink last night, and it had been enough that his memory of the events was more than a little bit fuzzy, including the reason why he had come to his dad’s house rather than go to his dorm.  “I...I was at a friend’s place and the house was closer than my place so...I didn’t leave until late, you know?” He asked quietly, even his own breathing being too loud for his taste.

His dad nodded but there was a note of distrust in his face as he got up and walked into the kitchen.  “Orange juice and buttered rye toast.” He called over his shoulder. “My usual hangover food.” 

“No, I don’t want-”  
  
“You’re just going to feel worse if you don’t eat.”  

Andrew sighed as he walked out of sight.  He wasn’t going to yield on this, ever the caretaker.  The sterility and white tones in the room were reflecting light so horribly and he suddenly wished he was back in Fletcher’s dimly lit, deep colored, warm toned house.  Christ, what an evening. Did Fletcher kick him out? Did he leave on his own? That part he couldn’t quite remember. He strongly remembered, however, his hands on his skin, flipping over onto his back, meeting his eyes, rambling and begging,  _ oh good God.   _ What a humiliating memory.

His phone started to ring and he glanced over, stomach turning uncomfortably as he saw Fletcher’s name flash across the screen.  He flushed and quickly cut off the ringer and pocketed his phone as his dad came back into the room with a glass of orange juice and plate of toast.  Since when did he have Fletcher’s number saved in his phone?

“Who was that?”  He asked as he sat down next to him.

He took the juice from him and he put the toast down on the coffee table, and the collision of the ceramic plate with the hard white plastic table echoed in his head.  “It...just a friend of mine. From last night.”

“Good night?”  

How sinfully inappropriate.  Of course, his father didn’t know he spent the evening with a man older than even him.  “It was fine. Went to the movies and then had some drinks at...at her place.” He lied through his teeth quickly and without remorse.  “Aren’t...aren’t you going to be late for work?” 

His dad just stared at him for a long moment and then shook his head and ran a hand over his face.  “It...no. It’s Saturday, Andrew.” 

* * *

His father insisted upon driving him back to Shaffer, despite how he protested he could just as easily take the train or the bus.  He had shoved his phone into the pocket of the jeans he’d slept in and felt it’s presence like a burning anxiety against his thigh and in his chest.  When they got to the school, his dad tried to give him a handful of tips for dealing with a bad hangover. “Don't forget to drink plenty of water!” he insisted as they pulled up to the curb.  “Eat at least two more small meals. Try to rest. Take a cold shower.”

“I’m fine, dad.”  He insisted as he got out of the car and a couple other students walking by looked their direction.  “Thanks for the ride.” In his frustration, he closed the door a little harder than he had meant to.  

The stairs up to his dorm had never taken so long to summit.  He filled up a pitcher with water from the bathroom sink, not caring enough to walk down to the building’s kitchen to get ice and filtered water, and sat the pitcher and a glass by his bed before stripping down to his boxers and collapsing into it.

He groaned as he realized his phone was still in his pants pocket, and leaned over the edge of the bed, tugging the pants closer to him and fumbling around and into the pocket to retrieve it.  He poured a glass of water, drank all of it in a single go, and then stared at the blinking notification on his phone.  _ Missed call from Terence Fletcher.  _  He hesitated, cleared his throat, drank another glass of water, and then finally hit the call button.  

“Fletcher.” 

Andrew paused and then answered him.  “Uh, it’s Andrew. You...you called?” 

“Making sure you got home and didn’t pass out in a fucking gutter or something.”  Came Fletcher’s reply. “You were still so goddamn drunk when you left, and...you know.” 

Andrew felt a smile spreading across his face as he heard this, perceiving it as an admittance of affection.  But before he could respond,

“Handing out a new chart next rehearsal, and I doubt Connolly or Tanner could handle it.”  

Andrew felt the smile turn from one of flattery to one of bittersweet pridefulness.  “Yeah. Um...I’m okay.” He replied. “I’m home. I guess I went to my dad’s last night on autopilot or something, so I woke up there.  He gave me a ride home this morning.” 

“No questions asked?”  Fletcher said with a tone of humored disbelief.  “No surprise when he found you passed out in his house unannounced?”

“Well he was confused, but-” 

“You explained it away.” 

“Yeah.”  A long stretch of silence took dominance of the conversation and he itched to just hang up, throw the phone across the room, and sleep off this incredible headache.  “I’m...I’m going to go try and sleep. Still very hungover.” 

It sounded like a chuckle, potentially a snort, but then he answered, “Yeah, you do that.”  

And he did.  

When he woke, it was to the sound of his phone ringing.  He ignored it, figuring it was just his dad calling to ask how he was.  But then it kept ringing. He ignored it again. Buzz. Text. Buzz. Text.  Then another call. He finally sat up in annoyance and grabbed his phone, answering it without looking to see who it was.  

“What?”  He gritted out.  

“Fletcher called a last minute rehearsal, man.”  Came the voice of Carl Tanner. “Where the fuck are you?  He sent out three emails about it this morning. He’s saying he’s gonna make Connolly core again if you don’t show up in the next ten minutes.” 

“Goddamnit!”  He threw the the blankets off of himself and grabbed the same pants he’d been wearing the day before off of the ground, pulling them on as he held the phone to his ear with his shoulder.  “Tell him I’m coming. Tell him I’ll be there as soon as possible.” 

Sure enough, when he looked through his phone notifications there were three emails about the rehearsal, two texts from Carl, along with two missed calls.  He pocketed the phone and pulled on the nearest tee shirt before sprinting out of the building, trying not to notice the nausea he’d felt the moment he sat up.

* * *

By the time he’d run a half mile, cut through the crowds of people surrounding the entrance, and bounded up three flights of stairs, it had been a half hour.   People were filing out of the room, including Connolly, looking stupidly proud, and Tanner. He met Tanner’s eyes and lifted his eyebrows in question. Tanner winced and glanced at the back of Connolly’s head as he walked away.  _ Goddamnit.   _

He rushed into the room.  Fletcher wasn’t at the stand.  

Andrew walked straight into his office without knocking.  “I didn’t know there was a rehearsal.” He insisted to the man who’s back was turned as he stared out the window.  “It’s Saturday. We’ve never had a Saturday rehearsal.” 

“You should have checked your email.  I sent three.” Fletcher said, shrugging and turning around.  “Turns out Connolly  _ can _ handle the chart.  Went ahead and gave it out today.  Guess you weren’t needed so badly.”  

Andrew clenched his jaw and stared back at him, deliberating through solutions in his mind before settling on one.  “Let me earn it back.” 

“How do you plan to do that?”  He asked. “What, are you gonna play for me?”  

Andrew closed the office door behind him and stepped forward, heart pounding in his chest as he crowded closer to him and dropped gracelessly to his knees to do something he’d never done before.  He licked his lips nervously and brought his hand up to rest on Fletcher’s hip. 

Fletcher lifted his eyebrows in surprise and shrugged.  “Hmm. That’s an idea.” He reached out and threaded his fingers through Andrew’s hair.  “Put those pretty pouty lips to use doing something other than whining and begging.” 

He nodded enthusiastically as Fletcher reached behind himself with his free hand to tug the curtain closed.  Andrew fumbled with his belt, sighing when he couldn’t get it undone and pulling his hands back so that Fletcher could do it himself.  

“You useless fucking uncoordinated piece of shit.”  

Andrew performed as was likely expected of him, considering he had never done anything like this before, let alone sober, let alone to Fletcher.  It was unusual, something he’d never thought he would do. He hesitantly dragged his tongue from base to tip of what was still only a semi-hard cock.  He was explorative, curious, inexperienced in the most naive way possible. He didn’t know where to put his hands. He tried putting them on Fletcher’s hips, but just got batted away.  On the floor, no, the angle was no good. He was too low. He finally settled on placing them on his own thighs, using the convenience of such positioning to wipe the sweat from his nervous palms onto the denim of his jeans.  He didn’t want to be too heuristic, not wanting to push boundaries when he didn’t know where they were. He kept his hands mostly to himself, 

After a bit of time had passed and he had leisurely begun to figure things out, the hand in his hair grew tighter and pushed him forward, compelling him to take him deeper.  

His eyes pressed shut, blinking back the tears that were forming there, the cause of which was ambiguous; was it the physical act?  It could just as easily be the more abstract debasement, but even so, whether it was a negative or positive reaction was dubious. He moved at the speed Fletcher’s hand imposed, and the humor in that was not lost on him.  Finally he couldn’t just keep his eyes shut, averted, no, he wanted to see him. He wanted to see if this had any sort of real effect on him, or if Fletcher was just some stoic, emotionless, sensationless being. He looked up at him as he took him fully into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat, making him struggle not to choke.

Fletcher had been looking straight ahead, eyes half lidded, but glanced down when Andrew looked up, meeting his eyes.  “Fuck.” His hand trailed down to his neck and gripped it hard not bothering to withdraw until he was done with him. 

When he did withdraw, he did his pants up and belt again and looked down at Andrew.  “Not bad for a first.” He said, although dismissively so. Andrew looked up at him in anticipation, hopefully. Fletcher just smirked. “You’re still not on fucking core. Don’t be late on Monday.” He walked past him and reached for the handle, then let out a breath of laughter.  “You didn’t even lock the door.”

* * *

 

A couple weeks passed of mostly just turning pages in rehearsal.  He looked to Fletcher at the end of each rehearsal, waiting for any inclination that he wanted him to stay after, but he never got it.  He kept his phone on his person at all times, hoping for a call, but never getting that either. There was an important competition in Harlem coming up the next week. Andrew spent any and all free time practicing and studying his charts.  There was always the chance that he’d get to play after all, if Ryan was late or fucked up or hurt himself. 

But there was only so much time he could spend drumming, and the quota had been met for the past couple weeks.  He needed to do something else or he’d pull his hair out. He already was pulling his hair out. The blisters on his hands had hardened into calluses and the ringing in his ears was non-stop.

He had intended to go by his dad’s place earlier to snag some booze, but it was already 7pm.  He was home by now. 

Instead he got out his phone and flipped through his contacts, few as they were, for someone over 21 who just might indulge him.  

He didn’t really have any friends.  He had contacts from the band, but nobody really liked him.  The only person he ever really even acknowledged was Tanner, at this point.  After getting kicked from core, Tanner’s ego had fallen and he stopped trying to mirror Fletcher.  He was just this hollow, self hating, quiet little prick. Luckily, he hated Connolly as much as Andrew did.

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Carl, it’s Andrew.”  

“Yeah, I know, genius.  I have your number saved.”  Tanner replied, and the eye roll was almost audible in his voice.  “What do you want? Lose your music?” 

Andrew let out an amused breath.  “No, I was wondering if you were busy.” 

“Why?”  He asked skeptically.  They’d never done anything outside of rehearsal.  They barely spoke. They nodded at each other when they passed in the hall or on the street and they met eyes when something particularly upsetting happened in rehearsal, but that was about it.  They rarely even said ‘hello’.

Andrew hesitated, walking from the desk to the window of his room, looking out and fiddling absently with the dingy and feeble blinds that hung there.   “Well...I kind of could use a drink. And someone to drink with.” 

“And someone to buy you booze, huh?”  Tanner asked with a snort. “I’m not fucking stupid.  I know you don’t want to hang out with me just for the hell of it.”  

Andrew sighed and ran his hand over the back of his neck.  “I’ll give you double whatever it costs.” 

“Jeez, what are you an alcoholic?”  He asked. “What do you want?”

* * *

 

Tanner showed up, brown bag in his arms, at his door within an hour.  “Got your bottom shelf shit.” He said, looking down at the floor awkwardly.  

Andrew forced an awkward smile and stepped back to invite him in.  “Thanks, I-”  
  
“Do you actually want me to stick around and drink with you, or did you just want me to get you booze because you’re underage?”  Tanner asked, still standing in the doorway like he was reluctant to come in. “If you want to just give me money and take the liquor, whatever.  It’s fine.” 

Something about the way he said it was somber, and it tugged at Andrew, made him feel something towards him; whether he pitied him or related to him, he could not decipher.  “You...you can come in. It’s less sad for both of us if neither of us drinks alone, right?” 

Tanner wasn’t meeting his eyes at all, as though he was uncomfortable, but he almost looked like he was smiling.  Almost. Tanner didn’t smile though, so that couldn’t be it. 

Andrew dug around in his wallet and pulled out a fifty to give him.

Tanner just stared at it and scoffed.  “It was a twenty dollar bottle. Just give me twenty.  I’m gonna drink with you anyway, you know? I don’t want you paying double for a bottle I’m gonna drink half of.”  

Andrew shrugged and put the fifty back, pulling out a ten and a couple of crumpled fives instead.  “I um...I only have coffee cups. All my glasses are dirty.” He pulled out a couple novelty souvenir mugs that he’d gotten as gifts from various and assorted oblivious relatives who didn’t realize he didn’t even drink coffee.

Tanner let out a breath that could have been a laugh and took one of them.  “‘You’re My Lobster’? What the fuck does that even mean?” 

Andrew shrugged.  “I think it’s a sitcom reference?  I don’t know. I didn’t buy it.” 

The bottle was opened as quickly as was possible and Andrew wasted no time in pouring himself about a half mugful, topping it off with some orange juice, and drinking just about all of it in one go.  Tanner eyed him curiously before starting to just sip on his own drink, similarly made, but less hastily consumed. “So what are you drinking to get rid of?” He asked after a long moment. “Or are you just so weird that you don’t know any other way to drink than to chug?”  

“I just...”  He shook his head.  Was he even drinking enough to try and open up about anything?  “I don’t know. I don’t like who I am when I’m sober. Even less so when I’m alone and sober.”  He sat down on his bed, back against the wall and feet outstretched in front of him, hanging off the side.  

Tanner milled around uncomfortably for a moment before pulling Andrew’s desk chair out and sitting down, still sipping his drink.  “What, like you get too far into your own head or something?” He asked.

Andrew looked up suddenly.  “Yeah, how...how did you know that?”  

“Happens to me too.”  Tanner answered, refilling his mug and tossing the bottle back to Andrew who did the same.  “It’s easy to do when you’ve got people like Fletcher fucking up your life. To get too stressed out and then drink too much.”  

Andrew felt the warmth spreading through his chest and the pleasant fuzziness in his head, the way that his muscles were slowly relaxing for the first time in a while.  “It’s so much easier when I drink.” He murmured. Memories of the other night at Fletcher’s were resurfacing now that he was tipsy, and hearing Tanner mention him didn’t make it any easier to put out of his mind.  “What is Fletcher’s deal? I mean half the time I think he likes me, half the time I think he hates me, and all the time I know he’s trying to fuck with me. I mean, what does he want from me?” 

“He’s using Connolly to piss you off, Andrew.  You’re his favorite.” Tanner interjected quickly.  “He doesn’t give a shit about Connolly. If he gave a shit about him he wouldn’t be so nice to him.”  

Andrew sighed and pulled one leg up, hugging his knee to his chest, balancing the bottle against his thigh.  “I guess.” He said quietly. “I just want it so bad, you know? I never imagined anything else for my life.  I can’t think of anything else I could do. This is the only thing I want.” He laughed, the noise being full of self hatred, wrapped in the realization that he was shit.  He was full of shit. His life was based on shit. When he looked back up, he saw that Tanner was just staring at him, expression having gone vacant. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling.  You probably don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.” 

Tanner shook his head.  “No, I...I know what you’re talking about.”  He said quietly, averting his eyes for a moment, and then clearing his throat.  “So if you want to get drunk, why don’t you just go to a party or something? I passed two different ones on my way here.  Your neighbors.” 

Changing the subject.  He was being too much and it was making Tanner uncomfortable.  He needed to stop being so intense and creepy. That wasn’t the way to make social connections.  Maybe that’s why he was so fucked, because he didn’t have any social connections. He didn’t have any friends.  He couldn’t stand his family. “I’m not really a party person. I’ve gone to a party around here before, but I showed up already drunk and didn’t really talk to anyone.”

“That doesn’t sound like partying.”  Tanner scoffed, polishing off his second drink and setting his mug aside with a sigh.  “Not that I’m really among that scene either.” 

“No?”  He asked with a half smile balancing his mug on his knee.  “Not a big party person?”

“No.”  Tanner shook his head.  “But I know that’s the best way to get booze if I need it.  And generally can get a lot of it for free.” 

That was true.  Maybe he should have considered that.  Around here everyone was so stressed he could probably get a hold of just about anything; booze, weed, cocaine, adderall, Xanax, anything.  But he was never really one for networking. Getting those things would involve knowing people, talking to people, finding ways to get it. “Requires too much of me.  Requires me to be socially apt and I just don’t think I can do that.” 

Tanner nodded and chuckled.  “Just easier for you to call me up out of nowhere and get me to do a liquor store run?”  

“You’re just one person, and I already know you.”  Andrew replied, sliding further down the wall, slouching and looking at him from over the edge of his mug.  “What about you, huh? Buying me liquor and coming to my place at the drop of a hat. No plans?” 

“No friends.”  He answered with a shrug.  A moment passed quietly before he leaned forward and took the bottle from between Andrew’s legs, pressed his lips gently to it, and turned it upside down, taking two deep gulps, eyes locked on Andrew’s, before handing it back to him.  

Andrew blinked, his heart played a disconcerting tempo in his chest, he ignored it and followed suit, taking a swig from the bottle as well.  “I don’t suppose we have to be.” He replied, words slurring. “I mean...right now we’re in the same room. Not the same boat. You know what I mean?”  

Tanner laughed and ran a hand over his face.  “You mean we’re friends?” 

“Sure!”  He shrugged and tilted his head, smiling at him.  “Why shouldn’t we be? I mean, it makes sense right?”  God, he had drank fast and drank deep.  Friendly wasn't a common descriptor for him, but here he was.

“Oh, everything’s gotta make sense?”

 

But they were friends.  They became friends, anyhow, and very quickly.  The next couple days following this evening, they continued to do things together.  They got pizza. They practiced together. They texted each other. Andrew finally stopped thinking non-stop about the situation with Fletcher, which had still not advanced in the slightest.  Now he had a friend. He had a friend for the first time since grade school.

So, when he opened his door and found it had been Tanner knocking, it was not a surprise.  

“Hey, Carl.  What’s up?” He asked, stepping back to let him in.  But he didn’t come in. He looked down at the suitcase by his side.  “You going on vacation or something?” 

Tanner tilted his head and looked up at Andrew from behind the hair that fell into his face with the movement.  “No, I’m um...I came to say goodbye.” 

Andrew’s eyebrows furrowed.  “What are you talking about?”  He asked. “What do you mean goodbye?”  

Tanner forced a smile and ran his hand over his neck nervously.  “Well you made me realize the other night that this isn’t my life.”  He said quietly. “You know how you said this is the only thing you ever imagined for yourself?  It’s like fourth on my list.” He went on to detail exactly what had happened and what was happening now.  He’d always wanted to be a doctor, but had never thought he had the dedication to commit to that many years of schooling.  When he had applied to colleges after high school, he was accepted to multiple, one of which was Shaffer and another being John Hopkins University in Baltimore for premed.  He chose Shaffer because it was close to home and because he thought it would be more fun. “But it’s not. It’s not fun, it’s the most stressful thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t even think it’s my calling, Andrew.  So...” 

“You’re going to Baltimore to pursue a career in medicine.”  He finished the sentence for him, forcing a smile and running his hand through his hair.  “That’s...that’s great. Congratulations, I’m glad you figured out what you want to do.” 

Tanner saw through it but didn’t call attention to it, thankfully.  “Thank you for helping me understand. And...” He hesitated and let out a breath of laughter, more at his own expense than anything else.  “Thank you for being my friend. That sounds so pathetic but really, it had been a while since I had a friend.” 

Past tense.  

“Yeah, me too.  Thanks.” 

“And good luck handling Fletcher.”  

Andrew froze and his eyes widened.  “Shit did I tell you about that the other night?”  He asked, shaking his head at himself. “I can’t believe I told you that.  God, I was so drunk, I don’t even remember.” 

Tanner leaned on the door frame.  “Told me what?” 

“The Fletcher and me thing.”  Andrew answered. Only upon looking back up did he realize that something was wrong.  Judging by the expression on his face, no, he had not told him about that. “Oh my god, I didn’t tell you-”

“The Fletcher and you thing?”  Tanner asked incredulously, letting go of his luggage and bringing his hands up to grasp at his hair in disbelief.  “You and Fletcher?” 

Andrew looked around the hallway worriedly.  “Could you keep your voice down please?” He said softly.  

Tanner stepped back and scoffed.  “I can’t believe this. I really like believed that you were decent, you know?  That you were a good person and everything.” He shook his head and ran his hand over his face.  “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What makes me a bad person?”  He asked, heart racing in his chest, maybe from the fear of someone else finding out, maybe from the fear of disappointing the only friend he had. “It only even happened once, Carl.” 

Tanner stopped moving, crossed his arms over his chest.  “What happened once?” He asked. Andrew didn’t respond. “Oh, I get it.  You’re not even just fucking around. You actually had sex with him.” Still, no response from the wide open mouth of Andrew Neiman.  “You’re a bad person because you’re cheating the whole system. No fucking wonder you got put on core so quick. You’re sleeping with him to get ahead.”  

Andrew’s eyebrows shot up and he shook his head insistently.  “No, Carl it isn’t even like that! I’m not doing it to-” 

“Yeah.”  He grabbed the handle of his suitcase again and gave Andrew a final phony smile.  “Goodbye, Andrew. I definitely made the right decision in leaving.” 

Andrew watched him walk away with a deep sense of regret, self hatred, embarrassment, and feeling of abandonment.  His breathing grew ragged and he stepped back into his room, clenching his jaw, trying not to fucking cry. He heard himself slam the door, felt himself lean against it and sink to the floor, stared at the floor ahead of him for a long time before composing himself enough to stop feeling again.  He grabbed his nightstand and pulled himself up, jostling it enough that the empty vodka bottle tumbled to the floor. 


	7. Fermata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fermata: a pause of unspecified length on a note or rest.
> 
> Anger, confusion, gratification, flirtation, banter, delay, climax. A truly wild emotional roller coaster. Who knows what's true and what isn't? 
> 
> Graphic.

Andrew walked into the rehearsal room that Friday morning a half hour early, having done a little bit of early morning drinking, and was surprised to find Fletcher already there.  He generally came in right on time, just like he did. “Oh, I...sorry, I can just come back later.” 

“Why?  You’re already here.”  Fletcher protested, gathering the charts on his stand into a pile and moving them to the table by the door. 

Andrew hesitated, and then figured that he didn’t have the capacity to give a shit right now and came into the room, setting his bag by the kit.  “Okay, yeah whatever.” He sank down into the chair beside the kit and sighed as he relaxed against the back. 

Fletcher glanced over his shoulder at him and lifted an eyebrow.  “What’s wrong with you?” He questioned, although he didn’t divert his physical attention away from his task of organizing the music.  “You look like shit.” 

“Gee, thanks.”  He mumbled, running a hand over his face.  “I just...it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head at himself.  He needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut. First telling Tanner he and Fletcher had banged, and now he was going to open up to Fletcher himself?  That was stupid. Fletcher didn’t really care what was wrong. He was trying to find things out again, just to spin them around and use them against him.  

“Bummed about having to be stuck with just Connolly for now on?”  Fletcher asked, eyes turned back to the table in front of him. 

Andrew hesitated, the mention of the Tanner situation making him angry for a split second, before being replaced once again by disappointment.  “Bummed about everything.” He said quietly, eyes falling to the floor. Nothing was going right. Everything was fucked. He got put on core only to get kicked the next fucking day.  Fletcher admits to wanting him and they have sex, but then doesn’t mention it again for weeks. He makes a friend only to have the former situation fuck that up as well. He couldn’t catch a break, and he was exhausted from trying to.  He drank too much on a nightly basis, all alone for the most part. He practiced his ass off and no longer got any recognition for it. Nothing was ever going to go the way he wanted it to. He looked up again to be met with Fletcher standing next to him, looking down at him.  

“Surely everything isn’t bad.  Come on, how melodramatic can you be?”  Fletcher sneered. 

Andrew stared up at him with a hint of irritation in his eyes.  “Yes. Everything is bad, Fletcher. Everything.” He groaned and got up, grabbing his bag.  “I’m just gonna come back when rehearsal starts.” He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to have this conversation.

Fletcher reached out and grabbed the bag from his grasp.  “Calm down. Just...come sit down.” He went into his office, bag still in hand.  

Andrew peered after him, irritation growing.  What did he fucking want? He had barely spoken to him in weeks.  He sighed and followed, not feeling he had much of a choice and being too complacent to even think of one.  He fell limplessly, gracelessly into the same seat he’d sat in that day, the day he went to Fletcher’s place, the day he first touched him.  “What?” He asked finally, needing an answer to why he was antagonizing him. 

Across the desk from him, bag discarded on the floor, Fletcher leaned onto the desk, balancing on his elbows.  “What is so upsetting?” He asked him quietly, and it was positively infuriating. 

What was so upsetting?  Was he seriously asking him that?  “What is so upsetting.” He repeated.  “Well someone fooled me into thinking he wanted me, called a rehearsal when he knew I was passed out from all the liquor  _ he  _ gave me, then used my absence as an excuse to make me an alternate, and hasn’t given me the time of day since. I finally got on good terms with Tanner only to have him find out about all of this and get fucking pissed and hate me again.  I have no friends, no part, no sex. So all in all, yes. Everything is bad.” 

Fletcher stared at him for a long moment and narrowed his eyes.  “Are you drunk?” He asked, corner of his mouth twitching upward.  “It’s not even nine in the fucking morning.” 

Andrew just stared back without a response.  After that night a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t classify this as being drunk.  Not anymore. His levels had shifted and his tolerance had increased. But he certainly wasn’t sober, not that he was going to confess that.  Even so, he recognized that his little rant was out of character and a little over the top for the conversation. 

Fletcher rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair.  “You need to pull yourself together.” He insisted, meeting his eyes pointedly.  “I’m not going to coddle you, alright?” He told him plainly. “I sent out three motherfucking emails for that rehearsal, and I  _ actually  _ told you we’d have rehearsal the night before.  It’s not my fault you didn’t remember that.” 

_ It is your fault.  You’re the one that got me that drunk.   _ “You told me the night before?”   He asked, all memories of dialogue being opaque.  

“I did.”  Fletcher answered.  “And if you don’t remember that, that’s probably why you think I’m ignoring you, too.”  

His leg bounced where he sat, nervous energy bubbling up now that it seemed he’d been in the wrong after all.  “What? I’m confused.” 

“I also told you that night that if you ever wanted to spend an evening with me again, you could come over any Friday night after 10.”  Fletcher tilted his head and lifted his eyebrow. “Don’t remember that either? You didn’t come by the next couple Fridays, so I just figured you weren’t interested anymore.  So I stopped approaching you about it. I’m not a predator, I took a hint.” 

Andrew looked down at the tops of his shoes and blinked, trying to remember any of these words but coming up short.  He had been extremely drunk, that was true. Maybe he really had been drunk enough to forget anything Fletcher said. He glanced back up at him, looking at him for a long moment.  He could be lying. He seemed like he was lying. But he really didn’t have much reason to think he was lying, and this way, he got to sleep with him again. “Well...I’m sorry. I guess I overreacted without...without all the facts.”  

Fletcher shrugged and they sat there silent again for a moment. 

Andrew wrung his hands in his lap and cleared his throat after a moment.  “Well....Are you free tonight?” 

“I am, as a matter of fact.”  Fletcher answered smoothly. 

Andrew would never tire of hearing his voice this soft, velvety, gentle, so much different than usual.  It was exclusively for these moments, exclusively for him he allowed himself to believe. Certainly he wasn’t the only person Fletcher had ever been with, and likely not the only person he was with now.  But he could pretend to be special, for a while anyway. “Well maybe I’ll stop by then.” 

Fletcher hummed and grinned, standing as the first student walked into the band room.  “I have no doubt.” He retreated from the office and Andrew followed, taking his seat behind the drums after retrieving his bag.  

Connolly came in on time, but just barely, his girlfriend lingering at the door for a moment before backing away as Fletcher slammed the door shut with a knowing smirk.  “Alright cocksuckers, lets get started.” He looked pointedly at Andrew with that same smirk as he spoke, and Andrew looked down at the floor, blushing. 

Connolly took his seat and rummaged in his bag for a bit before looking back up with a slight look of panic on his face.  He glanced to Andrew. “Hey man, can I borrow your sticks? I think I left mine in the practice room.” 

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”  Andrew scoffed, grabbing his own out of his bag.  “You definitely came in here straight from practicing.”  He nodded to the door window where his girlfriend was still standing, texting away on her phone.  He begrudgingly handed him his sticks, noticing that Fletcher had been watching the exchange from the front of the room.

They began with the piece they’d been polishing up, and stopped within eight beats.  

Fletcher walked back to the drumset with his arms crossed, looking at Connolly like he was going to demolish him.  “Have you practiced this in the past twenty four hours?” He asked him, mocking lilt in his voice. 

Connolly swallowed and looked up at him, then back down at the floor.  “Yes sir.” 

“Yeah?”  He stood directly in front of the kit, looking down at him with a slight smile on his face.   “Which measures did you focus on?” 

Andrew could see people averting their eyes like they always did when someone was about to get a scolding.  It seemed inappropriate to watch, and maybe that’s why he was always the only one watching, but he could never make himself look away.  

Connolly struggled to answer and he slowly glanced towards his music, but Fletcher was having none of it.  

“No, look up here.  Look at me.” He waited for Connolly to do so and lifted an eyebrow at him.  “What measures did you focus on? If you’ve practiced recently you should know which measures you played, right? ”

“Yeah, I uh...I focused on the middle part.”  Connolly stuttered.

Fletcher nodded, almost reassuringly, but not quite.  Or not at all, merely the facade of such. “Oh the middle part.  Which measures?” 

Connolly looked to the music again, but Fletcher reached over and closed it.  He looked up at him again, and Andrew watched his jaw and neck tensing nervously, a bead of sweat making it’s way down his forehead.  “Measures eighty four to um...ninety six?” He offered up, hoping to God that would be enough, but knowing it wouldn’t 

The man nodded again and for a second, Andrew thought he had glanced towards him.  But if he had, it was too quick to be concrete. “Why don’t you go ahead and play that for me.”  He suggested, smile growing just a bit when the look on Connolly’s face got more strained. “Twelve measures.  That’s it. Go.” 

After a long moment passed of him about to start playing, then pausing, then looking at the closed music folder, then back to Fletcher, he sighed and slumped a little in his chair.  “I don’t remember it off the top of my head.” He admitted finally. 

Fletcher shrugged.  “I knew you didn’t. Because you haven’t fucking practiced.  Your eyes were so glued to the music when we started that your tempo was fast by ten fucking clicks, you stupid mindless fuck.”  He looked over at Andrew, then back at Connolly. “Maybe it’s time to play musical chairs again, what do you think? Is a month the longest you can behave well enough to stay on core?”  

Andrew smiled despite himself, knowing how arrogant he must look in doing so.  

“Maybe I’ll just give Andrew here a few rehearsals to convince me he belongs on core.  Meanwhile, maybe I’ll have you get your ass down to the practice room and re-familiarize yourself with this piece we’ve been working on for weeks!”  Fletcher insisted, volume growing into a shout. 

Connolly visibly winced and shrunk back, standing up and shoving his music into his bag.  He headed to the door, hesitated and turned around, handing the sticks back to Andrew, avoiding looking into his eyes.  

An eerie silence hung over the room after he left like it always did when someone got kicked out of rehearsal.  Andrew couldn’t help but smile nonetheless. Embarrassing as this morning may have been, things were finally turning around a bit.  Maybe.

* * *

 

Andrew rifled through his dresser drawers for any clean clothes that were worth wearing and came up short.  Most of his clothing was tattered tee shirts and oversized button downs. Finding clothes that fit his form was hard, because he generally didn’t buy clothes that fit him properly.  He sighed and stared at himself in the mirror for just a moment too long and he felt the frustration build up in his chest before turning around and grabbing his wallet from the night stand.  

He felt just as much discomfort in a department store as he had in the sex shop.  There was something similarly personal about this affair, and he felt just as exposed shopping for clothing as he did any toy he could consider buying.  Every pair of eyes seemed to be looking at him and walking through the store required a constant internal voice to repeat words of reassurance that he wasn’t being watched or judged.  

One corner of the mens clothing section seemed less populous and he found himself searching the racks there rather than anywhere else in an effort to conceal himself as much as possible.  He didn’t know anything about attire. He didn’t know anything about what would look good on him and what wouldn’t, so he just grabbed an armful of shirts, smaller in size than usual, as well as a pair of black pants that he knew he needed to buy anway, then made his way to the dressing rooms with his head ducked.  

Nonetheless he was required to interact with someone.  

“How many items?”  Asked the girl by the entrance to the dressing rooms.  

He looked up at met her eyes.  Jesus Christ, she was ridiculously attractive.  He got lost for a moment in her bright eyes, the color of which didn’t matter when they were that full of life.  Her head tilted when he didn’t answer right away, but her perfectly crooked smile didn’t waver. He cleared his throat and looked down again at the clothes in his arms.  “Um...six?” He guessed. “I think it’s six.” He tried to maneuver to count the items but ended up dropping two or three in the process. 

She laughed and leaned down to pick them up, handing them back to him one by one so he could regain his balance.  “Oh.” She stopped with the last shirt in her hands, a deep maroon with ivory buttons. She held it up to him and he faltered, looking down at the shirt and then back up at her.  “This is definitely your color.” 

“R-really?”  He asked, looking back and forth between her and the shirt once more, flattered, and a little breathless.  

“Yeah.”  She nodded.  “It really fits your coloring.”  She looked back up again and met his eyes, smile widening just a little bit.  

He was blindsided, swallowed past the lump of nervousness in his throat.  “Well...then I guess I don’t need the other four shirts. I didn’t um...I didn’t know what might look good on me.”  

She laughed.  “Well I’m glad you value my opinion.”    
“I’m incapable of having one of my own.”  He answered with a smile. 

She stared at him for a moment longer and then held her arms out for the other shirts, taking them and setting them on a cart behind her.  “Well go try it on, let’s see! Pants too. I assume it’s an ensemble?” 

He ran his hand through his hair and cleared his throat.  “Yeah, it’s... yeah.” He walked into one of the dressing room stalls and took a moment to steady himself.   There were things that people did. Stare at him when he did something stupid? Sure. Ignore him for the most part?  Yeah. Compliment him and flirt with him unprompted? Not usually. Not to his recollection. He hurriedly undressed and pulled the pants on, transferring his belt from the ones he’d been wearing to these.  Thank God they fit right. He couldn’t imagine walking back out there with ill fitting pants now. And the shirt. It was tight, clung to him more than he was used to, but by all definitions, it fit. He tucked it in, did up the buckle on the belt, and left the sneakers off because that would just be ridiculous.  The mirror taunted him, confused him, there was a 50% chance this looked good and a 50% chance that he looked ridiculous but who was he to decide that? He always thought he looked ridiculous. 

“Well?”  Came her resonant voice from the other side of the door and he took a deep breath to ground himself before walking out.  

She looked him over slowly, neutrality in her expression.  

He smiled and shrugged.  “Yes? No?” 

Slowly, her warm smile spread back over her face.  “Definitely yes.” She nodded, still looking him up and down.  “Give me a little turn.” 

Andrew laughed and shook his head, obliging begrudgingly and noncommittally.  “Any good?” 

She was tilted to the side, checking him out from a new angle, lip caught between her teeth, still with that same pleasant smile when he turned back around.  “Yeah, I’ll say. Lucky girl you’re seeing tonight.” 

“Oh, no I...”  He shook his head.  “No it’s um...I have a dinner.”  He lied, affection clouding his judgement like usual.  

“Oh.”  She stepped forward towards him.  “Any interest in planning another dinner sometime soon?  Say, Sunday?” 

Was he allowed to do that?  He’d only seen Fletcher outside of school once, and it had just been sex.  Surely he was still allowed to be with other people. But with everything going on, he probably didn’t even have the mindset to handle dating, especially not with someone who seemed so normal.  His life wasn’t something he could explain to someone like that without scaring them off. He couldn’t toggle both. “I um...I actually don’t date much.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, wincing apologetically.

She stepped a bit closer to him , crossing her arms and looking down at the floor.  “Well I um...” She looked up and met his avoidant gaze. “I don’t date much either.  I usually have dinner at my place with,” She shrugged. “no food.” 

Christ, she was offering to sleep with him.  Or asking if he wanted to sleep with her? Or suggesting it as an option?  She was coming onto him; that much at least was certain. “I um...I don’t know.  I don’t know when I’m free.” 

She pulled out her phone from her pocket and handed it to him with a grin, the  _ add contact _ page open.  “Well why don’t you just give me your number and I’ll shoot you a text sometime?  We can make plans later.” 

He did so, senselessly and thoughtlessly.  There were more words said between them, but none of them mattered, and none of them made it past the prideful and flattered ringing in his ears.  Of course maybe it wasn’t all flattery. Some of it was intrigue, interest, attraction, you name it. 

In the end, he left with the maroon shirt, the black trousers, and a text that read:  _ It’s Angela.  Now you have my number too. _

* * *

When he knocked on Fletcher’s door that evening, he wasn’t immediately greeted.  He waited for a long moment, shifting from foot to foot, trying to glimpse in through the window for any movement but being met only with the heavy view obstructing curtain.  He felt the anticipation rising, worried that maybe he was too early, but was proven wrong when he checked the clock on his phone, reading 10:32.

Finally, Fletcher came to the door, opened it, stared at him with that same commanding confidence he always had.  He looked him over and let out a breath of near silent laughter. “Why do you look like a waiter?” 

Andrew glanced down at his clothes, then back up at him.  “It’s...I mean it’s slacks and a shirt, what?” 

He tilted his head and shrugged.  “You don’t look bad.” He said, stepping back into the house and leaving the door open in front of him.  

Andrew walked in and took his shoes off, closing the door behind him.  He followed him into the living room just like last time, and by the time that he got in there, Fletcher was already at the bar cart pouring drinks.  After a brief moment of consideration, Andrew sat down in one of the armchairs. He was a little less tipsy upon arrival this time, and it was probably obvious in the tension he held in his shoulders.  Everything was a little bit too clear, a little bit too real. But last time things went poorly afterwards because he had been so unaware. Maybe he needed to control himself more this evening. 

Fletcher handed him his drink.  “Let’s just sip it this time, hmm?”  He suggested, then sat down on the sofa across from him with his own drink, identical other than the volume.  He had probably twice as much in his cup as Andrew did in his own. Had he had that much the last time? Had he been as drunk as Andrew was?  The thought was almost funny. 

He sipped his drink, as suggested, quickly chasing each sip with coke to avoid tasting it for long.  It was so harsh comparatively. 

“So why did you tell Tanner about the other night?”  Fletcher asked with a chuckle. “I mean that seems like the worst thing you could have done.”  

Andrew shook his head and stared down at the floor.  “It was a misunderstanding. He said something, and it sounded like he knew, so I just assumed I told him something when I was drunk.”  

Fletcher nodded and sat his glass down on the coaster.  “You really need to regain control over yourself.” He said, squinting at him slightly.  “I mean how often do you get that drunk? I mean to the point of forgetting things like that?”  

The whiskey burned his throat but at this point, it was a welcome feeling.  It was distracting at least, gave him something to focus on other than Fletcher, other than the conversation.  “I don’t um...I don’t know. Few times a week.” 

“Blackout drunk a few times a week?”  Fletcher asked, lowering his eyebrows.  

Andrew shrugged.  “I guess. I usually just fall asleep though; I’m not generally with anyone.”  There was a long pause in the room. Andrew startled at the quiet but jarring sound of the air conditioning cutting on.  He looked up after the length of the silence had reached a point where it was no longer natural, no longer simply a dip in the conversational arc.  Fletcher was staring right at him, leaning forward where he sat, cradling his drink in both his hands. “What?” 

“That doesn’t happen anymore.”  Fletcher said, voice even, gaze steady.  “Drink a few times a week, sure, but not that much.  Learn your fucking limits or you’re going to end up hurting yourself and you’re no good to anyone in the hospital with alcohol poisoning.”  

Andrew shrugged again and downed the rest of his drink.  

Fletcher stood and took the glass from him, setting it on the cart.  “I’m fucking serious, Neiman. If you want to continue to have the opportunity to drink while you’re with me, I expect you to control yourself when you do it on your own time.”  

Andrew stood too, feeling much more at ease when the movement made his head spin just a little.  “Oh what, you’re gonna make me sit around here sober?” He stepped up closer to him and crossed his arms. “That’s not gonna be any fun for either of us.”

Fletcher smirked.  “You don’t think I’d enjoy putting your unskilled, graceless, bumbling hands to work?  Or that nervous useless mouth of yours?” 

Andrew lifted an eyebrow and smiled.  “Didn’t seem like it was so useless in your office a few weeks back.”  Came his retort. “To my memory, bad as it may be from all the drinking,”  he felt his smile grow as he teased. “It seemed to get the job done in just a few minutes.”  

The look of disdain on Fletcher’s face was offset by amusement.  “Speed doesn’t always mean skill.”   
“Oh it doesn’t?”  He asked with a laugh.  “You had me fooled over the past months in studio band.  And um...well that day, speed was more on your part than mine, wasn’t it?”  

His back hit the wall before he could say much else, and he was surprised to have the smirk corrected with a kiss rather than a slap.  His eyes fell shut and he leaned into the touch, liking the casual way Fletcher’s knee found it’s place between his legs. 

“You’re a little too mouthy for my taste tonight.”  Fletcher murmured against his lips before his own drew a trail of chaste kisses and nips down his neck. 

Andrew let out a breathy sound of both gratification and amusement, and once more, was overtaken by a hunger for more than what he was getting.  Fletcher moved his leg, it became less obtrusive, and Andrew sank to his knees, hoping to be of use again, to be used again. Fletcher stepped back and looked down at him, merely snorting in response before reaching down and taking his face in his hands only to pull him back up.  “I’m not so quick to be done with you this evening.” He said, and Andrew felt warmth spread through him, sourced at Fletcher’s touch and words. “In fact, I’m not so quick to let you have what you want tonight either, you greedy fuck.” 

Fletcher stepped back from him and gestured at the stairs with a smug look on his wildly expressive face.  

Andrew obeyed and walked up the stairs, trying not to let his eagerness push him to move too quickly.  When he walked through the open door into Fletcher’s bedroom, he was met with the sight of a metal folding chair, obscenely out of place in the opulent extravagance of the general decor. He looked behind him to Fletcher for explanation, and got it in the sight of the two pairs of metal handcuffs he was holding up towards him.  Ah. Something new. 

“Undress and sit.”  He instructed simply, setting the handcuffs down on the dresser as though they were something inconsequential and trivial.  Fletcher went to the drawer of his bedside table while Andrew did as he was told. He unbuttoned his shirt hastily, folding it and setting it on the dresser by the handcuffs, unable to take his eyes off of them as he removed each article of clothing.  He took his tee shirt off, folded it, placed it on top of the shirt. He hung his belt over the door knob, removed his trousers, folded them, and did the same for his boxers. When he finally turned around, he caught the eye of Fletcher, nodding in approval at the neat stack of clothes.  “Not so careless today, hm? And well done wearing the plug this evening.” He nodded at the chair and his smile vanished. “Sit down.” 

He came to his side, laughing quietly when Andrew recoiled slightly at how cold the chair was.  But he paid him no more mind before roughly grabbing his right wrist, clasping one handcuff around it, and the other to the leg of the chair.  He did the same thing to his left, and then pulled another chair from his closet and sat directly in front of him, still fully clothed, and with that unwavering look of superiority.  “You’re gonna learn patience tonight.” Fletcher placed his hands on Andrew’s knees and pushed them gently apart, spreading his legs. 

Andrew looked down at the floor by his side and saw an assortment of items sitting there; a bottle of lube, a vibrator of some sort it seemed, rings it looked like.  What was his plan for this evening? How could he get fucked sitting handcuffed like this? 

“When did you last orgasm?”  Fletcher asked as he pulled on a latex glove once more.

He hesitated, knowing that the real answer was going to be disappointing, but that a lie wouldn’t be convincing.  “Actually just...a few hours ago. It wasn’t intentional, I just-” 

He was cut off by a slap to the face, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to excite.   “You’re gonna end up paying for that tonight, Andrew. You should know better than that, hm?  You did last time.” Andrew swallowed and looked down, away from him. The same hand that had slapped him gently took his chin and turned his face up to look at him.  “Just means things are going to be a little bit drawn out tonight.” 

And drawn out they were.  

The constricting tightness of the ring, once it was rolled on, proved to be a hindrance to him, a highly intentional one. 

“You get close,” Fletcher began, pouring lube into his palm and then wrapping his hand around Andrew’s length, “and you tell me.  I am not letting you have that until the end of tonight, and if you do, you can forget about getting fucked.” 

Andrew nodded his understanding, though he became quickly distracted as Fletcher’s hand slowly began moving over his cock, brief rests at the tip, and then firmly back to the base.  He watched his hand closely, intently, seeing ever movement, every slight tightening, every twist as it happened, as he felt it. This kind of focused attention was uncommon for him.  For someone else to be fixated on him, on doing this  _ to  _ him, it was a strange feeling.  It was almost discomfort, like having to wear one of those stupid paper gowns at the doctor's office, like taking a shower in the dorm with someone else showering just one curtain away.  But far more pleasant. His vision blurred just a bit, just as much as he had drank, and he suddenly wished he’d had the opportunity to have more.

The sound of the vibrator cutting on pulled him from his own thoughts and pulled his eyes from his cock.  His eyebrows knitted together and he wondered what Fletcher could be aiming to do. The answer became quickly obvious as the head of the vibrator was placed just below the base of his cock.  He gasped and his legs instinctively moved inward only to be pushed outward again.

As Fletcher’s speed increased, so did the intensity of the vibrator.  Christ, how many settings did the thing have? It became difficult to repress moans, and he was encouraged not to.  Very quickly, the room was filled with them. Quiet, elongated moans, gasps, and his hips moved up, forward, thrusting into the hand that was already moving indecently fast.  They grew louder, more unrestrained, and then, “Stop! Stop, I’m-” He let out a groan when his hand and the vibrator were both taken away. 

Fletcher, sitting there in front of him, smiling at him lewdly, was getting a kick out of the whole exchange.  Andrew noticed that the evidence was obvious in the tightness of the man’s already tight trousers. 

It became a vicious cycle.  Fletcher touched him, teasingly, softly, slowly.  Gradually, he built up speed, built up intensity, until Andrew had to tell him to stop.  Each time he told him to stop was like a kick in the stomach. Each time he felt the loss of contact like a lost limb.  Each time he grew more frustrated, and each time it took less and less time to get to that point. 

Who knows how much time had passed before the time Fletcher took his cock in hand and Andrew immediately had to tell him to let go.  By this point, he was dizzy, on edge, eyes full of tears that he kept blinking back. 

Fletcher reached out again, ran his thumb over the head of his dick, and Andrew squirmed to pull away from the touch.  Fletcher then instead ran his hands gently across his inner thighs, then quickly across his length again. Each touch was more teasing than the last.  He met his eyes and smiled. “Think you’re ready to get fucked?” 

Andrew couldn’t have nodded more enthusiastically without giving himself whiplash.  

The time between getting the handcuffs off and getting to the bed was lost on him in his eagerness.  Fletcher took the plug out and sat it aside. His wearing it cut tortuous minutes off of the time it took to get him ready.  Once again, he was flipped onto his back and pulled to the edge of the bed. 

He wasted no time in fucking him, hard and fast.  No buildup, no pausing, no room for hesitation. 

Andrew wasted no time in begging.  “Please, please let me come.” He whispered, draping his arm over his eyes and gasping for air through sobs.  

“Not just yet.”  Fletcher replied, pausing only to removed the ring from his cock, the action drawing a shaky moan from him. 

It wouldn’t be long before he wouldn’t be able to help it. 

Fletcher reached towards him and grabbed his wrist, dragging his arm away from his face.  He met his eyes and smirked. “Now.” 

No further touch necessary.

He came with a loud cry, hips thrusting upward onto nothing, eyes blinking rapidly before falling shut, and head pressing back into the mattress.  

A minute two more from Fletcher and the affair was complete.  

Andrew lay in the bed, body still shaking whether it be from adrenaline or pleasure or both.  Fletcher retreated into the bathroom. He returned with a warm, damp, cloth, and wordlessly cleaned his stomach and chest off, folded the cloth in half, and wiped the sweat from his brow.  

They said nothing to one another, and finally Andrew mustered the strength to stand, and go get dressed.  Fletcher did the same, and Andrew expected to be told to show himself out again. He pulled on his sock, hopping unsteadily on the other foot as he did, and glanced over at him.  

Fletcher smiled slightly and let out a sigh.  “One more drink for the road?” 


	8. Eighth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew makes progress, a date, and...another date. Tension between him and Connolly is running high, playing like an accompaniment to this whole chapter, but not addressed. He quite likes Angela. He can't stop thinking about Fletcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't think of a good music term for the title of this chapter. If anyone has any suggestions, hit me with a comment.   
> Also, any more commentary on Angela or on any dynamics we're working with here are 100% welcome.   
> Thanks! 500 hits so far which is pleasant! I'm really happy this is going well and I apologize for not updating for a while.

In the next rehearsal, Andrew was put back on core.  Following the rehearsal, he watched Fletcher walk straight into his office and close the door.  He sat on the stool, looking after him for a moment. The sounds of students packing up felt much quieter than the clicking of the lock on the office door.  There was a part of him that had hoped things might be more comfortable and less hostile, but he should have known that was illogical to expect. 

He stood up and gathered his stuff, then headed out to go down to the practice room.  Connolly pushed by him in the doorway, hitting his shoulder as he did, obviously in aggression, and he glared after him.   He was just a better drummer; that wasn’t contestable, that was just true. Why shouldn’t he be the core drummer? Ryan barely practiced, showed up late and unprepared, and this wasn’t even his life.  It’s like drumming was second or third, his social life occupying first. This wasn’t the place for someone who couldn’t commit. It needs to be your whole life. You need to bleed for it.

Andrew paused in his steps and his line of thought and felt a pang in his heart, like familiarity, laced with disgust.

When he sat down in the practice room, he pulled out his phone and found another text blinking there from Angela.  He had responded to her at one point, merely to affirm that he now had her number. Then the weekend passed with drumming and drinking and sleeping.   He didn’t text her and she didn’t text him. But now she had.

_ Doing anything this Friday? -Angela _

Well, probably.  He assumed he would be going to Fletcher’s again; at least he hoped he would be.  Did he even want to make plans with her? True, she was pretty, and true he had rushed back to his dorm and gotten off thinking about her.  But he did tend to enjoy some things more when they were in the abstract of his mind. Some things were better off remaining fantasies, and she herself was clearly untouchable.  She was bold, intimidating, forward, beautiful, and vivid. She was intangible. 

Still he found himself responding to the text.  

_ Friday’s are no good for me.  Saturday night? -Andrew _

_ 9:00 PM. I go to Pratt, meet me in front of Esther Lloyd-Jones residence hall. -Angela _

_ That’s in Brooklyn, right?  -Andrew _

_ Yup.  Willoughby Avenue.  -Angela _

_ Okay, I’ll see you then.  -Andrew _

In her dorm.  At 9pm. What else could that mean?  He’d just made a sex date with a girl he met in the department store while shopping for something to wear to Fletcher’s.

He tucked his phone back into his pocket and picked up his sticks, still warm from rehearsal, blood stains still present from who knows how long ago.  If he couldn’t distract himself any other way, he could certainly practice.

* * *

 

The week passed slowly and as one might expect.  Rehearsals, practicing, and then sleeping only enough to remain conscious during the day.  Fletcher met his eyes now and again during rehearsal, commented on his technique, or rather criticized it, then nodded at him wordlessly when he left. That was the extent of their interactions up until Wednesday.  They had a competition that Saturday around noon, so he’d gotten even more harsh than usual. Once more were the days of throwing chairs and stands and kicking people from core for even the slightest mistake. 

Following morning rehearsal on Wednesday, Andrew had intended to go back to his dorm and eat something.  Instead, he felt a hand grab his jacket sleeve as he was walking through the door and pull him back in. His first thought was unpleasant.  He must have fucked up in rehearsal. Shit. Shit. Shit. He couldn’t get kicked from core. It hadn’t even been a fucking week! He had practiced his ass off!  He knew this piece inside and out. He had every measure memorized, every time signature change, every tempo. He turned around and faced Fletcher nervously.

Fletcher lowered his eyebrows and let out a snort.  “What are you giving me the hurt puppy look for? The fuck are you afraid of?”

Andrew swallowed.  “Did I um...did I do something wrong in rehearsal?”

“Do you think you did?” 

Oh jeez, this shit again.  Had he? He didn’t think he had.  He was almost positive he was pretty solid on this piece, and Fletcher hadn’t bitched at him for anything in rehearsal.  “No, I didn’t do anything wrong.” He said, feigning confidence. 

Fletcher smirked.  “No, you didn’t.” He let go of his jacket and retreated to his office.

Andrew had the good sense to follow him, and instinctively closed and locked the door behind him, to which Fletcher’s response was a lifted eyebrow, maybe of amusement, maybe of judgment.  Nonetheless, Andrew sat down in the chair and crossed his arms defensively over his chest. “So um...what’s up?”

He sat down across from him and crossed one leg over the other.  “Coming over this Friday night?” He asked quietly, nonchalantly.  

Andrew shrugged and nodded.  “Yeah I thought I would.” 

Fletcher nodded.  “There’s a quartet I wanted to see playing at Nowell’s and I won’t be home by ten.”

“Oh. So...what, should I not come?  Or come a little later?” Andrew crossed his leg as well, unconsciously mirroring him.  

“No, I was thinking you just come to Nowell’s with me.  So just come by around eight instead.” Fletcher said in response before leaning down to open the bottom drawer of his desk.  

Andrew faltered for a moment and then felt a smile threaten to spread across his face.  Fletcher wanted him to go out with him? To see a quartet at a bar? “Really?” He asked, not able to conceal the smile from his voice despite hiding it from his face.  “You want me to go with you to the-” 

A black gift bag was placed in front of him on the desk and slid across it until it was just within arms reach.  He stopped speaking, looked at the bag, and then glanced up to Fletcher, who sat there with a vacant but anticipatory expression.  A moment passed before he grinned and reached out to look in the bag. “You know, you don’t have to have them gift wrap it every time.”  Andrew said as he pulled the tissue paper from the top and set it aside.

“What’s the fun in that?”  Fletcher asked, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk.  “What, like I’m gonna just chuck a shopping bag full of sex toys at you?”  

Andrew chuckled at that thought and then pulled the item out of the bag, turning the packaging in his hands and looking it over.  It was a plug, similar size, maybe a bit larger. Very different shape. This one was curved just a bit, and he didn’t have to guess why.  He blinked and his eyes narrowed in confusion. “What’s this part?” 

“That’s a remote.”  Fletcher said matter-of-factly.  

Andrew stared at him for a long moment.  “A remote.” He looked back down at it.

Fletcher’s response was a simple nod.  

“So it’s a vibrator, with...with a remote.”  He said out loud, but more as a self assuring statement.  “And you,” He looked up at him and met amused eyes. “You want me to wear this on Friday night.  And you’ll have the remote.” 

That same shark-like grin that always made a home on his face was back, and Fletcher tilted his head.  “That’s the idea. It’s wireless. Works from up to forty feet away.” 

Andrew became antsy, shifting in his seat, intrigued to the point of physical response at the mere thought of it.  His leg started bouncing, and once it had started, there was no stopping it. His fingers twitched across the packaging as he turned it to read the description on the back.   _ Powerful pulsation. Seven different settings.  Intense vibration.  _ He swallowed again, and let out a sigh that came out a lot more noisy than he’d intended, sparking a huff of laughter from Fletcher.  Andrew blinked a few time and then nodded. “Yeah this is...yeah. I can do that.” 

Fletcher nodded again and stood up.  “Good. Well then, do.” 

Andrew stood as well and tucked the toy into his backpack.  He slung it over his shoulder and then turned towards Fletcher and found himself quickly being backed up against the wall again, which coincidentally was his very favorite place to be.  He looked at him with a slight smile on his face and then cleared his throat. “So Friday night, your place, at eight?” He asked in confirmation, eyes flickering down to his lips and then back. 

“That’s right.”  He grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him in closer, looking at his lips as well for a long moment before pressing a few kisses to his neck instead.

Andrew almost laughed at the thought of Fletcher kissing him goodbye, but that wasn’t what was happening.  He was teasing him and sending him off into the day to remember it. “Okay so, yeah. I’ll um...I’ll see you in rehearsal.”  

“Yeah.”  Fletcher nodded and let go of him, stepping back.  “Oh and Andrew?” 

Andrew turned back, looking over his shoulder as he unlocked the door.  “Yeah?” 

He smirked.  “Hands off until Friday.”  He said, tilting his head slightly.  “Think you can manage that?” 

Andrew snorted.  “Can I manage not getting off for three days?  Um...yeah.” He said with confidence. “Three days is nothing.”

* * *

 

Three days was far too long.  Not because he couldn’t handle not touching himself for three days; it hadn’t been that long since he’d lived at home and had to be careful about when he did that for fear of getting caught.  Because there were too many reminders of it. The plug sitting on his desk, the new one tucked away in his bag that he saw every time he needed to get anything else out of it, the texts from Angela detailing just how excited she was for Saturday.  And Fletcher didn’t go out of his way to make things less trying. Casual, easy innuendos in class, smirks thrown his direction, humiliating insults, even a slap in the face. Nothing made his pants feel too tight like Fletcher slapping him in the face in front of fucking everyone.  It was a good thing that people tended to look away when another student was being reprimanded, because if they hadn’t, it would’ve been as painfully obvious to them as it was to him that he was sitting at the kit fully fucking erect. Friday’s final rehearsal in particular had been a whirlwind of excitement, especially Fletcher’s final words before calling the end of rehearsal.  At least four other people had gotten shouted at that day, and he had been left alone. Rhythm had been consistent and Andrew had watched him as carefully as he could. The rest of the band had fuck up moments, but he hadn’t. It came as a shock still when Fletcher stood and began packing up his things, not looking at him and offhandedly saying “Well done today Neiman, you really held this goddamn rehearsal together,” before walking into his office, leaving the whole band staring at Andrew, just as surprised as he was that he received praise from Fletcher.  When had he ever praised him for anything, ever? In front of people, that is. He certainly had the faded, hazy, sweat drenched memory of words of praise

* * *

Friday afternoon, Andrew sat in his dorm with his laptop, pointedly not looking at porn despite how his current mindset wanted nothing more than to put on a video and jack it until it was time to leave for his date with Fletcher.   _ Date?   _ Absolutely not.  Until his...outing?  Evening out? Dinner?  It wasn’t a date. Nineteen year olds didn’t go on dates with sixty four year olds.  But then again, nineteen year olds didn’t generally have sex with sixty four year olds either.  Things were getting to a point where it was ambiguous. When Fletcher was just buying him sex toys and touching him in his office and inviting him over to his place in the middle of the night, it was casual sex.  Sure they’d only had sex twice at this point, but now they were going out to a bar together. At eight o’clock at night. This wasn’t a hidden encounter behind closed doors. It wasn’t a quickie in a bathroom stall.  It wasn’t sucking him off in his office at school. It was going out for an intimate evening in a classy place, and then back to his house to have sex. That sure read like the itinerary for a date.

Andrew looked at reviews and descriptions of Nowell’s and realized that it was in fact, as classy as he assumed it would be.  It was a place Fletcher frequented, so of course it was classy. That said, the only clothes he had that would make sense to wear there were what he bought the prior week or his concert attire.  He certainly couldn’t risk wearing his concert attire out the night before the last big competition of the year. But there was no way he could pull off wearing the same thing he’d worn last Friday.  Fletcher would notice for sure. 

_ You go to Pratt Institute?  -Andrew _

_ Yeah, for fashion design.  -Angela _

_ I have to go to a fancy place tonight.  It’s like a jazz bar. And I’m clueless.  -Andrew _

_ Who are we dressing to impress? -Angela _

He hesitated.  She had really only expressed interest in casual sex with him.  Almost every message she sent was about sex, in a round-a-bout, relatively subtle way.  He didn’t have to worry about her getting jealous right? 

_ A man.  A very classy man.  An older man. -Andrew _

_ I’m intrigued.  I had no idea you were a sexual deviant.  -Angela _

_ I’m starting to be.  -Andrew _

_ You’re an enigma.  You seemed so nervous and vanilla when I met you.  I was afraid  _

_ I’d break you.  Not so afraid anymore.  -Angela _

_ Well that’s good haha.  -Andrew _

_ What should I wear? -Andrew _

_ Do you know what he’s wearing?  -Angela _

_ No idea.  Probably black.  He almost always wears black.  -Andrew _

_ Come by the store.  I’m on shift. Let’s find you an outfit.  -Angela _

How weird was it for him to show up, find a girl he had plans to sleep with that he’d only known for a week, and let her lead him around the department store handing him clothes she picked out for him to wear on his sex date with his director?  Very fucking weird. But he wasn’t so concerned. It was actually fun. He legitimately was having fun shopping for clothes. That had never happened before in his life. 

“Oh my god, this color would be good.”  Angela tossed a deep navy button down shirt over her shoulder at him and he barely caught it, shuffling the armful of clothes he already had onto his other arm to free up one to catch with.  “Not for tonight obviously, because you don’t want to wear navy if he’s wearing black.” She turned around and laughed when she saw him. “I didn’t realize just how much I’d picked out already.  Weren’t you just looking for one outfit?” 

Andrew shrugged as well as he could with everything he was holding.  “I could stand to buy a few. My dad just transferred some money into my account for food and stuff but I just don’t eat as much as he thinks I do.”   _ Or as much as I should. _

She smiled and turned back around, walking towards the dressing rooms.   “Okay come try stuff on. I should probably be at my post anyway. God forbid people try on clothes without me monitoring.”  

A swelling feeling in his chest concerned him.   Did he actually have a thing for this girl? That would be horrifically inconvenient.  But there was just something about her that made his heart beat a little too fast and his breaths come a little too short.  

He tried each of the items on, one by one, not even looking in the mirror before opening the door and letting her tell him what she thought.  No to the khaki pants. Yes to the navy shirt. No to the salmon colored shirt. Yes to the purple one. “Really? Purple?” 

“It’s not purple, Andrew.  It’s...” She spread her hands above her head, as though this particular shade was heaven itself.  “deep mulberry!” 

He shrugged.  “Deep mulberry it is then.”  

Yes to the new pair of black trousers and the new belt.  You could never have too many pairs of black pants, and he consistently lost his belts.  

“Alright, what color is this?”  He asked, coming out of the dressing room in what he thought to be a simple blue shirt.  

She rolled her eyes and stepped closer to him.  “It’s cobalt.” She answered. 

He nodded and a smile.  “Yeah. Of course it’s cobalt, silly me.  I should have known.” 

She put her hands on his chest and pushed him back just slightly with a laugh.  “Ugh, shut up.” She said jokingly. “You’re such a dork. And you need that shirt.”  

A smile spread across his face without his consent.  He stared at her for just a moment too long, then finally nodded and went back into the dressing room, changing back into the jeans and tee shirt he’d shown up in.  “Okay, so I’m getting the pants,” he came back out. “the belt, the mulberry shirt, the navy shirt, and the cobalt shirt. But I’m not getting any of these ties. I never wear ties, let alone patterned ones.”

She picked one up and ran it through her fingers.  “It’s paisley, first of all, and I really think you should get at least this one.  It would look so good with the navy shirt.” 

He rolled his eyes and reached out, feeling the material between his fingers, pausing and holding his breath when her hand grazed his own.  He met her eyes for a moment, and couldn’t speak. The moment passed and he looked away. “Okay. Just one. Just that one.”

* * *

 

Mulberry seemed the choice for the evening.  At seven o’clock, he was dressed, plug in but not on, combing through his hair once more before sliding his shoes on and heading down to the subway stop on the corner by the dorms. 

Shit, he hadn’t had a single drink.  And he was underaged, how was he going to drink at the bar?  His nerves ran high the whole train ride to Brooklyn. He arrived just a few minutes before eight and was invited in for a moment.  

Fletcher was sorting through some records, sitting on the sofa, having barely looked at him since he’d gotten there.  His inattentiveness was a bit of a blow, and just a little bit confusing coming from the man who had invited him there in the first place.  In contrast, Andrew paced the floor of the living room, anxiety high, eyes darting to Fletcher every couple moments. A long few minutes passed before Fletcher finally asked. 

“What’s wrong with you?  Why can’t you stand still?” 

Andrew paused and looked over at him.  “Just um...I had planned to have a drink or two before I left my place but I...I didn’t.  And I just don’t know if I can handle being sober all evening, you know? While I’m out in public doing...this whole thing.”  He held the remote in his hand and stared down at it. 

Fletcher’s eyebrows lowered slightly in what appeared to be confusion.  “We’re going to a bar. Why are you concerned about not being able to have a drink?”  
Andrew blushed and kept his eyes down on the floor.  “I’m...you know, I’m underaged.”

That prompted a quiet chuckle.  “I wouldn’t worry. If I order both of our drinks, I highly doubt you’re going to get carded.”  He stood up and went to the bar cart. “But if you’re so antsy, have a shot or something.” He poured a shot glass of something a little less strong, a bourbon.

Fletcher hadn’t even stuttered over the reminder of his age.

Andrew downed it, straight, no chaser.  

His nerves stopped being so noticeable almost right away.  The burn in his chest was more than a physical thing. It was like taking a placebo.  The alcohol content wasn’t enough to have calmed him, but the thought was. His lip got a break from his worrying, he stopped biting at it.  He stopped pacing. His mind stopped reeling. 

Fletcher snatched the remote from his hands, didn’t touch any buttons, just pocketed it.  “Let’s get a move on.” 

The bar wasn’t so far from Fletcher’s place.  Fifteen blocks away. They walked. 

Andrew’s head turned swiftly and he gawked humorously when a black Trans Am sped around the corner and down the street.  “Jesus, that was a sweet car.” He said quietly.

Fletcher, walking alongside him, not phased by the car or seemingly anything else per usual, smiled slightly.  “You’re a Firebird person?” 

Andrew nodded and turned back forwards again, hands in his pockets.  “Yeah. That was like my dream car, the 1990 Trans Am. But I think I want one in powder blue with brown leather interior.”  He scoffed and kicked a rock off the sidewalk and into the street, eyes on the ground again. “Not that I’m ever going to be able to afford that.”  

Fletcher glanced over at him with an amused breath.  “I never figured you for a car person.” He put his own hands in his pockets as well as they walked leisurely on, down the sidewalk.  “Pontiac exclusively?” 

“No, I like all kinds of-”  He faltered, both in his speech and movement.  He stopped dead in his tracks, every muscle tensing, glancing to Fletcher with a silent anxiety as he realized the man had hit a button on the remote.  “All...all kinds of cars.” He forced out, regaining his control over himself and continuing to walk, if a little stiffly. “Really thought this was going to be an ‘after we’re seated’ kind of thing.”  

“It is.”  Fletcher hit another button and it stopped.  “Just wanted to see how you reacted to it before we tried it inside in front of a crowd.  

Andrew sighed in relief when the pulsation stopped.  “Yeah that...that was a good idea. Thanks for the warning.”  He said sarcastically. 

“How was the intensity?” 

“I don’t know, Fletcher, I’m walking.”  He said with a nervous breathy laugh. “It was too much, you know?  I was surprised by it.” 

Fletcher shrugged. “Alright we’ll have to gauge your limits inside then, hmm?”

They walked around the corner and up to the bar, where a chalkboard outside identified the quartet and guest singer who was going to be performing with them.  The sun was still just barely illuminating the street, a hazy golden hue while the low light emitting from the bar’s windows was blue tinted. Cigarette smoke billowed up in clouds from the crowded patio out front.  Glasses hit tables, silverware hit plates, laughter and quiet conversation clouded his mind. They walked in and a young man looked up from the host’s stand and smiled, recognized Fletcher, and immediately took them past a group of people who were waiting and directly to a table by the back wall, still in view of the stage.  

“Wow everyone knows you everywhere, huh?”  He asked as small drink menus were placed on the table in front of each of them.  

Fletcher nodded.  “Yeah, I tend to make friends easily.”  

“Friends.”  Andrew squinted and smiled.  “I don’t know, I just can’t see that.”  

“Well, people who know and respect me.  You wouldn’t call those friends?” 

“No.”  Andrew said in retort.  “I think I’d call that an outfit.  And I’d call you the don.” He shook his head and sat back in his chair, leg bouncing like it usually when he was nervous or in a new place.  

Fletcher chuckled.  “Yeah, I’m a mob boss.”  

“Yep.  The mob boss of the New York jazz scene.”  Andrew said with a quiet laugh.

Fletcher met his eyes and there was a light there, amusement or happiness or whatever it may be.  It made the bright color of his eyes all the more noticeable; cobalt. 

The waiter came to their table and Fletcher ordered.  Two whiskeys, water back for him and Coke for Andrew, and just as he’d said, no questions were asked.  He could only assume part of that was the fact that they knew Fletcher well. He knew he had a baby face and didn’t look like he had any business drinking anything harder than some champagne at a bar mitzvah.  

They didn’t speak to each other in the few minutes that the waiter was off putting their order in at the bar.  Andrew kept his eyes on the table and on the one brief occasion that he looked up, it became clear that Fletcher was keeping his eyes on him, amused expression at his expense.  Was he being painfully awkward? Did he miss a button? What was it? 

When their drinks were brought to them, a bowl of peanuts was placed in the center of the table as well.  Andrew was glad for them, not because of a hunger, but for the need to do something with his hands to distract himself from the panicky way his heart fluttered in his chest.  Fletcher still wasn’t speaking.  _ Why isn’t he talking to me?  _

A pianist was playing leisurely onstage as the rest of the quartet was setting up.  They were far enough away, both from the band and from other tables, that it seemed this was merely an extension of Fletcher’s home.  He would be just as isolated with him here. The activities would be just as lewd. Their interactions would be just as inappropriate and fueled by drunkenness.  

Fletcher reached across the table when Andrew sat his glass down and took it, sliding it and the small amount of liquor it still contained over to his side of the table.  “Slow down. Relax.” He said softly, the warm, deep, pleasant tone of his voice blending perfectly into the quiet ambiance of the place. The gentle piano was the accompaniment for easy, friendly, and obscure conversations between lovers, friends, family, and staff alike.  There was something soothing about the mild and tender way that Fletcher took his glass and urged him to unwind. He almost didn’t interpret it as potentially having a shrouded ulterior motive. Almost. But he still didn’t let his guard down completely. 

“I am relaxing.  That’s why I’m drinking.”  He answered, taking a couple more peanuts and absently tossing them into his mouth.

Fletcher shook his head and sipped his own whiskey slowly.  “You don’t always have to chug it down to relax. You’re just going to end up hurting yourself in a stupidly desperate attempt to calm yourself down.”  He spoke with the languid pace of a man who knew about relaxation. 

Somehow, this seemed very conflicting with the idea Andrew had of him.  He’d never seen him as being well acquainted with leisure. Although maybe his opinion had formed in a place where he could never be that.  “Trying to convince me you’re really this down to earth guy?” Andrew asked with a snort. 

Fletcher shrugged.  “You can’t always be the same person in every situation.”  He began. “You have to learn that sometime too, you know. You can’t drink like you do on a weekend night first thing in the morning before rehearsal, and you shouldn’t be as anxious outside of rehearsal as you are during.  You have to learn to compartmentalize. I mean, do you talk to your father the same way you talk to your friends? Do you show up to his house wasted for a simple family dinner?” 

“Yes.”  Andrew responded, sipping his Coke now that the whiskey had been taken.  “And I don’t have friends, so...” he trailed off and sat the glass back down heavily on the cloth covered table.  

The quartet began playing.  Lullaby of Leaves. Fletcher glanced up briefly when they began, then his eyes were back on Andrew.  “Well outside of rehearsal, I’m much more laid back, yes.” He answered the unasked question and reclined more in his seat, setting down his still half full glass and alternating to the water.  “Don’t have any little snot nosed kids playing like fourth graders here, outside of studio band. And I have precedence over that band. It’s my job to push you guys and tell you when you’re shit.”  He gestured to the band onstage subtly with his hand. “Do you see me shouting at that clarinet player that she’s so flat I assumed she must’ve had a reduction?” He asked with a muffled chuckle, then shook his head.  “No, because she’s not my student and it’s not my place or my job to lecture her.” 

Andrew turned towards the stage, watching the group and listening intently as he could over the gentle buzz of conversation between him and the stage.  Now that he was paying closer attention, the clarinet player was flat. Not by much, but enough to notice if you were looking for it, which apparently was too much.  “You notice everything, don’t you? I mean, every little thing.” He shook his head and turned back towards him. 

He nodded.  “Is it any wonder I’m never satisfied?”  

“I guess not.”  He supposed that if he noticed every little thing like that, he’d probably lash out a little too.  Of course, he couldn’t imagine ever being angry enough to throw chairs at someone. He couldn’t imagine ever slapping someone in the face for it.  “So when you’re aggressive in rehearsal, it’s because you’re angry that we’re bad?”

The older man leaned forward and slid Andrew’s glass back over to him.  “No,” he hummed. “It’s because I know you can be better.” 

Andrew stared at him for a long moment, into his eyes, at the creases and lines that accented his face, at the way his lips settled into a downward curve when he stopped speaking, not quite a frown, but not a smile.  He took his glass and met Fletcher’s eyes as he sipped it, slowly. And Fletcher smiled then.

The evening went on. 

Fletcher asked for a bottle of wine, red.  They listened to the quartet and drank their way through half of the bottle in silence.  When the band had finished their last set, soft applause echoed around the venue. Fletcher poured himself another glass, and Andrew followed suit.  He hadn’t even realized until now that the remote control had not been touched since they were outside. Hadn’t that been the point of this little outing?  Not that he had any complaints. The evening had been pleasant enough without it, not that the evening was over yet. 

Fletcher must have noticed his expression and taken it as confusion.  “We were listening to that group.” He said as an explanation. “I didn’t want to disrupt that part of tonight with the other.” 

Andrew nodded.  

“But,”  he shrugged.  “We do have half a bottle of wine left.”  

His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket.  Andrew felt the anticipation rising and rising, but Fletcher still hadn’t hit any buttons.  

“What did you think of the drummer?”  He asked. 

Andrew let out the breath he’d been holding.  “He was okay. A little sloppy.” 

“Reminded me of you.”  Fletcher jibed with a grin.  

Andrew shook his head and let out a quiet laugh.  “Jeez, thanks.” He sipped his wine. “I thought I was better than okay today.”  

“You thought that or you thought I did?”  Fletcher asked, the hand that wasn’t buried in his pocket picking up his glass.

“I...”  He considered it for a moment.  “I guess I thought you did. I never think that of myself unprompted.”  

Fletcher nodded and pursed his lips thoughtfully.  “So you’re incapable of having a positive opinion of yourself without someone else voicing that opinion first.”  He polished off his wine. “You’re a strange but familiar creature.” 

“Familiar?”  He barely got the word out before jumping at the sudden sensation.  “Fuck.” He muttered under his breath before swallowing nervously, positioning himself a bit differently, shifting, blinking, blushing.  It was much more intense a sensation than it had been before, outside, earlier in the evening. He kept his eyes down on the table. That was, until a swift kick to his shin under the table made him look up and meet Fletcher’s eyes.  They were trained on him, observing his response with a very slight upturn of one corner of his mouth; it was almost as though he was trying not to look too pleased with himself.  _ Or too pleased with me.   _ Was that a valid thought?  Fletcher was the one who suggested this particular activity, not that Andrew ever suggested anything.  But didn’t that mean he got a kick out of watching this? Out of watching him? It was that thought more than the vibrator that had made him this sinfully aroused, hard on a fierce outline in his pants, painfully tight as they were.

The thing clicked off again and Fletcher poured another glass of wine.  

Andrew sighed in relief and regret when it stopped.  He ran the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping the beads of sweat from his too warm skin, and then reached out for the bottle after Fletcher had sat it back down on the table.  When he went to pour it, he found himself turning it upside down, only a few drops falling into his glass. He cleared his throat and sat it back down, glancing up and catching sight of the man sitting there with a comically full glass.

The sound of shattering glass drew his attention.  Someone had dropped their drink. Andrew startled, and before he could take a breath, the vibrator was on again.  He inhaled slowly before letting it out and turning to Fletcher, who looked as smug as he possibly could. 

“Too much to drink?”  He asked with a facetious note of concern in his voice.  “You’re looking a little bit pale and distracted, Andrew.”

Andrew was very decidedly trying to remain calm and act as if he was unaffected, as though everything was completely normal.  It may as well be. Who knew what normal meant for him anymore anyway. “I’m fine, actually.” He protested, and to prove it, he reached across the table and took Fletcher’s glass, taking a long swig before sliding it back across the table to him looking straight into his eyes from start to finish.  Cockiness was only in his nature when he could tell he was doing something right, and the way Fletcher’s eyes were raking over him, he must be doing something right.

The small grin on his face grew just a tad, though he shook his head, and hit another button.

Up went the level again.  Andrew gave no sign of reaction.  He smiled across the table at Fletcher and then got their waiter’s attention and asked for a glass of water.  

“I wonder if you could tell me who composed this piece.”  Fletcher said lowly, leaning forward towards him, eyes challenging.  

Andrew blinked and looked away from him, listening to a few bars intently, wracking his head for an answer.  It was piano; solo. Not something he obsessed over despite it being jazz. More modern jazz he figured. Sixties?  Seventies? Up went the intensity and he was distracted enough again to flinch. “Herbie Hancock!” He answered spiritedly, drawing the attention of a couple sitting at a table nearest them.  He flushed when he noticed their gaze and turned away. 

Fletcher nodded.  “Herbie Hancock.” He agreed, amusement in his voice.  Amusement and something else. Something indecipherably different but just as pleasant.  

This little game went on.  Fletcher slid his chair forward, and then their knees were touching under the thankfully long table cloth.  Andrew moved closer in response, and their thighs pressed against one another. It was as close as they could get at a table in a public place.  The buttons were pressed, levels changed, eyes met, smiles exchanged. Four songs went by and Andrew didn’t even pay them any mind. People stood and one by one, each table emptied save a few by the front and their own.  This was fucking unbearable. How long could this go on? It was impossible not to grind his palm against his erection, but somehow he kept himself from doing so anyway. 

Andrew realized he was far more intoxicated and far less under control as he had thought when he noticed himself gripping Fletcher’s knee under the table cloth like an anchor.  He must have been doing it for a long while. His fingers were cramping. He swallowed and looked down at the floor. “Could we go?” He whispered to him, glass of water dry as his mouth now.  

“Where to?”  Fletcher asked sarcastically.  

Andrew looked up at him again.  “Your place. Your bed.” 

The level went up once more, now on the highest setting available to him, and Andrew jerked and jumped, a quiet but obvious moan falling from his open mouth.  

Fletcher turned it off just as soon as he’d turned it on, nodded to himself and turned unhurriedly to the waiter who was wiping a table off just a few feet away.  “Check, please.” 

  
  



	9. Ninth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final competition of the semester. Andrew and Fletcher are starting to interact in a friendly way and people are starting to take notice.   
> Andrew's date with Angela goes as expected, just a couple hours later than expected.

Andrew straightened his suit jacket and leaned in just a little closer to the mirror before huffing and recoiling, turning away from it entirely.  There was no point in just staring at himself only to grow more and more frustrated with his reflection. Call time at 3:00. It was 12:45 now. Fletcher had instructed him to leave two hours early before sending him home the night before.  “I’d hate to have to kick your ass the day after I’ve fucked it.” Or something along those lines. 

He’d awoken earlier than intended after such a late night, but it had given him an additional few hours to practice, force himself to eat something, wash up, and get dressed.  Now he was bounding down the stairs at just the right time to head to Penn Station, buy the ticket for the New Jersey Transit, and head to Trenton. His nerves were giving him a surprisingly low amount of trouble this morning.  The previous evening had gone so well and been so much more enjoyable than he could have imagined, and now he was faced with a lack of anxiety about seeing Fletcher today, and even about his performance. He was prepared; he’d spent plenty of time making sure he was prepared.  He did dedicate the vast majority of his free time to practicing, even more so after the fight for core.

* * *

 

When he walked up to the building, he did so shortly after Fletcher, shortly enough after him that he moved quickly and caught up, falling into step alongside him.  

Fletcher spared him a brief glance of acknowledgement before turning his eyes forward again without anymore indication of seeing him.  

Andrew cleared his throat, holding his stick bag close to his left hip, his right hand clenching and unclenching by his side.  “So...we’re pretty much set to win this, right?” He asked finally. “I mean we’ve won all but one competition this semester, and the band that won that competition isn’t even at this one.”  

“Never assume.”  Fletcher said in quick response.  “And I wish they were here. It seems unfair that we aren’t getting the chance to grind them back into the dirt.”  

Andrew faltered and then resumed his pace.  “But they were at the competition right after that one.  We beat them the very next weekend.” 

He shrugged and paused at the stop of the stairs.  “Would still be nice to beat them again here.” They walked in and Fletcher handed Andrew a key on a small keyring, and hit him in the chest with his bag without warning and pointed down a hallway to their right.  “Room 25A. Go put my stuff in there and tune the set.” He turned on his heel and walked over to a table that was set up near the entrance to check the band in for arrival.

Without a second thought, Andrew nodded, pulled the strap of the bag over his shoulder, and walked down the hallway past countless rooms before reaching 25A.  Their pianist, Dorian, and a few saxophone players were meandering outside of it. “Hey guys.” He greeted them for once, feeling confident enough and happy enough to feel sociable.  

Everyone noticed it and acknowledged that it was out of character, a couple of them raising their eyebrows, even scoffing.  Dorian, whom he had developed a little bit of a rapport with, smiled mockingly, then noticed the bag. “Isn’t that Fletcher’s bag?”  

Andrew unlocked the practice room with the key, opened the door, and flipped on the lights.  “Uh, yeah why?” He walked in and placed the bag by the front wall and the key on the stand before moving to the drumset.  

“Well, you know what you are don’t you?”  Asked Dorian with a laugh, following him back to the drums.  “You’re Fletcher’s bitch.” 

Andrew blanched and then forced a laugh.  “I am not, dude.” He shook his head and unbuttoned his jacket before getting out his pitch pipe from his stick bag.  

“You ever hear Fletcher ask anybody else here to carry his shit?”  He questioned, leaning on the piano and grinning down at Andrew. “You’re his bitch, man.  He slaps you around and makes you do stuff for him. It’s textbook: bitch.” 

Andrew rolled his eyes, setting about tuning.  “Look, I happened to walk up at the same time as him.  He had to sign in, so he handed me his stuff to take to the room.  If anything that’s like...that just means he trusts me.” He tried to say it like a retort but it came out as a weak and listless defense.  

Luckily he didn’t have to continue to defend himself because Fletcher walked in then, followed by a couple students rushing in behind him before he slammed the door.  “Get your instruments ready.” He commanded. “I want to run through bars 65 to 82 before we walk out there. Neiman?” 

Andrew looked up and blinked owlishly at him.  “Yeah?”  
Fletcher gestured to the empty floorspace by his stand.  “My bag?

He pointed at the wall behind him.  “It’s up against the... there.” He nodded when Fletcher glanced behind him and nodded approvingly, taking the key from the stand and tucking it into the front pocket of the bag. 

Within moments, they were in the middle of their first piece.  Less than ten clicks in, they’d been cut off and Fletcher walked around the front of the band to the last chair trumpet.  “We’ve talked about this, yes?” 

The poor kid’s eyes widened and he swallowed nervously.  “About...about what?” 

Fletcher withdrew in feigned disbelief.  “Let me see your music.” He demanded.

He handed it to him and Fletcher looked it over.  “Ah, okay because you didn’t  _ fucking write it down!”   _ He took a pencil from his stand and scrawled across a portion of the margin.  “You are always...” He shook his head in frustration. “ _ always  _ sharp on this A, DeBiasi, okay?  We’ve talked about this in rehearsal like four times already.  You’re lucky the alternate is fucking sick or I would have replaced you weeks ago.  You’re real lucky I’ve been to busy to look for another alternate trumpet player.” He slammed the pencil and music back down onto his stand.  “Show me the horn.” He said plainly. DeBiasi held up his trumpet and Fletcher pointed at a part of it. “What is this?” 

“M-my tuning slide.”  Said DeBiasi, with an inflection of concern.  

“Your what?”  He held up a hand to his ear as though he hadn’t heard.  

He cleared his throat and nodded.  “My tuning slide.” 

“Right.”  Fletcher nodded.  “Fucking use it.” He returned to the front of the room and they finished running through that segment, although it was now clear he only wanted to do so to test the tuning in the trumpets.  Couple of scales and exercises and they were ready to go onstage, just waiting to be called on. 

Andrew put his sticks and equipment back into his bag and stood, standing around and waiting alongside everyone else until finally being called onstage.

* * *

Fletcher was as charismatic onstage as he was when he first talked to you one on one.  He was all smiles and flair, spoke in that low voice that had been making his knees weak since day one.  “Thank you for the introduction.” He said after the announcer had called the name Shaffer over the mostly empty auditorium.  The four judges sat in front, some high school band sitting in observance, probably for a grade, in the middle portion. Other than that, there were some scattered parents who actually took an interest in their college aged students endeavors.  “It’s an honor to be playing here tonight, and I thank you for your time and attention this afternoon.” He turned towards the band, stepping away from the microphone and gesturing to the sound guy in the wings to cut it. 

He glanced around at the band.  Every performance brought the same look.  It was a smile - a genuine one - that they didn’t see in any other situation.  He scanned through the eyes of the band, flashed his teeth, but for once it didn’t seem threatening.  It was encouragement, the highest of which he was capable it seemed. Andrew felt a smile grace his own lips when Fletcher’s eyes finally met his own.  It felt like a compliment that the man’s smile grew just a touch when they did. His hand was raised. They were all at the ready.

The smile went away as soon as they started playing, as it always did.  They didn’t need a smile in the middle of a piece. Andrew’s eyes didn’t glance at the charts even once.  Connolly turned the pages anyway, begrudgingly. He kept his eyes on Fletcher, no longer on his face, but on his hands.  He kept time. He played impressive fills. The rush of adrenaline numbed his head and pulsed in his veins, and he fought against impulse to give any attention to the tempo of his own pounding heart, instead internalizing Fletcher’s tempo.  Well, the tempo of the piece, but ultimately, that was Fletcher’s. Ultimately  _ he _ was Fletcher’s.  Every part of this was a facet of him. 

Fletcher’s eyes darted to DeBiasi in the back, who’s face flushed red as he quickly adjusted his tuning slide just before the A that he always sharped.  Slight nod of approval, the action of which would render any member of this band prideful; it was the most praise he generally bestowed upon anyone. 

For half a second, Andrew’s eyes flashed to the judges and he felt his pride grow when he saw them paying avid attention, but pleasantly so, not writing as much as listening.  They were simply enjoying the music. They couldn’t have made any mistakes so far if they weren’t immediately scrawling notes of displeasure. When he looked back up, Fletcher was directly in front of him, looking down at him with a scowl.  “You’re dragging.” He mouthed.

Andrew’s smile faded once more and he made the correction, caught back up, adjusted, scolded himself for ever taking his eyes off Fletcher.  His anxiety dropped again and he felt comfortable, happy even when he noticed Fletcher’s scowl turn back into vacancy. He still felt confident, and it seemed just about everyone else did too.  It was palpable in the strength of their dynamic, the bounciness of their tapping toes, and especially the lack of tension in their shoulders when they stood after the performance. 

When the results came, they held their heads even higher.  Once again, first place, and in the final competition of the year.  It was an honor. It was an accomplishment. It was worthy of pride.  It was  _ 7:45.   _

He had completely lost track of time.  Once they were off the stage and had received the customary debriefing speech from Fletcher, he hurriedly rushed out of the building and down the stairs out front, heart in his throat.  He was supposed to meet Angela out in front of her building at eight! There was no way he could get from Trenton to Brooklyn in fifteen minutes! Why had he assumed this thing would end early enough for him to get there?  

He tried to hail a cab but there were only a few around, and they were full.  Fuck. How was he going to get back to the train station? He fumbled for his phone in his pocket and felt his heart sink when he realized it was almost dead.  He hurriedly tapped out a barely comprehensible text and the screen went black as he hit send. He could only hope it went through and she wouldn’t be sitting and waiting outside for him all this time.  

Again, he scanned the street for cabs but he couldn’t seem to find one that wasn’t occupied.  That’s when he felt a hand land on his lower back, and jumped a tad at the contact. 

“Relax, what’s the matter with you?”  Fletcher asked lowly. “You just won the final competition of the year.  You should be ecstatic right now, yeah?” 

Andrew cleared his throat.  “Well...I fucked up, you know?  I was dragging at the climax of the song.  We won but I fucked up.” 

“You still played very well though, did you not?”  Fletcher asked, tilting his head inquisitively. 

Andrew shrugged.  “I mean, yeah. But not perfect.  It could have been better. I still have plenty of room to improve.”  

Fletcher looked at him for a long moment and then nodded, a smile spreading back over his face.  “Yeah. That’s true.” He patted his back once more before dipping his hands into his trouser pockets and stepping back slightly.  “You look like you’re in a rush to get somewhere.” 

“I had plans I should have canceled with someone at eight.”  He admitted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I should have realized this was going to last this long.”

The valet drove up with Fletcher’s car and handed him the keys.  Fletcher glanced over at Andrew. “So, long story short, you need a ride.”  

He glanced him over and then shrugged.  “I mean, if you’re offering, maybe just to the train station?”

“Hop in.”  

* * *

After speaking for a few moments in the car, Fletcher decided it would be faster and more convenient for both of them if he just drove him to Pratt.

“I mean I live four blocks from there anyway.”  He insisted. 

So that was a little over an hour and a half he spent with Fletcher, sober, in a car.  Conversation was sparse and mostly about how the band had done. 

“There’s a green folder in my bag, it’s the judges comments if you want to read them.”  Fletcher instructed, pointing over his shoulder at the bag. “Don’t get too big headed about them.”  He cautioned with a chuckle. “They were a little too fond of you I think.” 

Andrew’s eyes scanned the paper, looking for any mention of him, and found some quickly.  “The rhythm section,” he began reading aloud. “Was clearly the best prepared for this competition of anyone in the band.  The obvious attention paid to direction by percussion was indicative of a very thorough knowledge and understanding of the selections and of a strong rapport between director and musician.”    He couldn’t help but laugh quietly, hand falling to cover his mouth lightly in an attempt to stifle it. One glance at Fletcher and he knew he was amused at the same comment. “Strong rapport, huh?”  

“I’d say.”  He replied without missing a beat.  

“According to judge number 2, ‘despite the obvious preparedness of the entire group, the-’” Andrew began, Fletcher cutting him off with the completion of the sentence. 

“Relationship between director and drummer carried the weight of the entire band.” Fletcher said with a flat out laugh.  “I mean I don’t know where they’re getting this stuff, but it’s amusing to say the least.” 

Andrew shook his head in humored astonishment, closing the folder and tucking it back into Fletcher’s bag.  “You don’t...you don’t think we’re obvious do you?” 

“No.”  Fletcher scoffed.  “Trust me. I’ve barely looked at you today.  If anything, you’re just an obsessive little puppy dog eyed student.”  

Andrew rolled his eyes.  “Where are you getting that?”  He asked with a laugh. “I don’t think I come across like that.”  

Fletcher shot him a look as he took the exit onto the bridge.  “The moment you started dragging was the one moment you weren’t staring at me, onstage or off.”  

Andrew turned a little more towards him in his seat.  “Well how would you know that unless you were watching me just as closely?” 

Fletcher didn’t answer for a moment and then glanced over at him.  “I’m observant, Neiman. Not obsessive.” 

Andrew shrugged.  “Well, believe what you will.”  

That earned him a glare.

* * *

When Fletcher dropped him off in front of the college, he didn’t say goodbye to him.  He just pulled up to the curb, stopped, but didn’t park, and stared at him until he got out.  Andrew muttered thanks for the ride but received no acknowledgment, so he shut the door, and the man drove away without a second glance.

His phone was still dead, but he pulled it out of his pocket to try and check the time anyway, cursing himself when he remembered.  He stared at it, knowing that if it wasn’t dead, he could scroll back up in their texts and find her address. As it was, he struggled to remember, only recalling “Esther Lloyd-Jones Residence Hall”.  He looked around at the buildings, finally seeing a sign with that on it, and walked towards it. A guy was sitting outside, sprawled across the concrete, leaning on the building itself and smoking a cigarette. 

“Excuse me, do you know Angela uh...”  Shit. He didn’t even know her last name.  

“I’m Angela Uh.”  She walked over from where she’d been sitting against a tree just out of sight.  

He glanced over at her and then put his head in his hands.  “I am so sorry. I’m like...how late?” 

She glanced at her watch and smirked.  “About an hour and a half.” 

“God, I’m shit.”  He professed with a shake of his head.  

Angela laughed and looked him over.  “But well dressed shit. Why the fuck are you wearing a suit?”  She herself was in pale blue jeans with a yellow ochre tee shirt, the words  _ check my pulse  _ printed across the brown, stitched on, front pocket.  Casual, cute, just exactly what he expected an fashion design major to wear on their first date.  

“I had a competition.”  He explained, feet starting to move belatedly as she tugged on his sleeve, pulling him along towards the building.  He followed mindlessly after catching his footing again. 

She led him through the halls and to the stairs.  “A jazz band competition? How’d it go?” 

“We won.”  He answered.  “It lasted a lot longer than I expected it to.  That’s why I’m late.” The need to explain himself was perpetual, feeling that nobody could possibly understand his shortcomings without a full fledged defense.  He might as well have a lawyer follow him around; jury too. 

“You’re not late.”  She protested with a smile, turning towards one of the faded green doors in the hallway and glancing over her shoulder at him as she unlocked it.  “You’re early for next time.” 

The common space was mostly bare other than the furniture which was standard and had no flair whatsoever.  The only sign of life in the living room was an Audrey Hepburn poster on the wall and a laptop charger on the floor.  

“Don’t get along with your roommates?”  He ventured. 

She raised her eyebrows.  “I don’t know how you could have possibly known that.”  

Her bedroom on the other hand was the most purposefully aesthetically pleasing space he’d been in since a high school field trip to the Whitney Museum of Art.  Blown up covers of The New Yorker and Covergirl covered one wall, while the opposite one was mostly French artwork. He recognized one of the French ones; a large black cat on a dark yellow and red background.  Le Chat Noir. He’d seen it somewhere before, maybe as he had been passing by other dorm rooms in the residence halls at Shaffer. It felt like something he’d seen through a half open door, something he remembered vaguely, like he’d only seen a fragment of it.  

“Steinlen.”  She said, closing her bedroom door and walking up behind him, hands behind her back delicately.  “My favorite artist. He drew a lot of cats.” She stepped just a bit closer, resting her chin on his shoulder, raising herself up slightly on elevated feet, not quite on her tiptoes but nearly.  

He became acutely aware both of how close she was and how sober he was.  That wouldn’t be a problem for long, because after he had awkwardly turned back around, shuffling away from her and the contact, she produced a brownie from a pan on top of her nightstand and broke it in half.  “I don’t know if you’re like straightedge or whatever, but I’ve got a bunch of these and I can’t finish them before they go bad so...” She extended one of the halves to him. 

The fact that he was not generally known to smoke or consume weed, and had only done so maybe twice didn’t cross his mind, nor did the fact that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.  He remembered liking it the times he had tried it, and despite all logic, at the brownie without asking any questions about it’s potency.

The evening passed with questions about every knick knack on her desk and quite a lot of laughter, mostly on his part, which was pleasantly unusual.  He didn’t actually do a whole lot of laughing generally. 

“What’s this?”  He asked.

“That’s a tiny tea set.”  She answered, opening up the tiny wicker picnic basket to reveal brightly painted ceramic cups and saucers, a teapot, a sugar bowl, spoons, and a milk pitcher.  “My great grandmother bought it for me, back when I was a kid. I lived with her for a long time in Tennessee.”

He glanced at her from the side.  “You’re from the south?” 

“Appalachian born and raised.”  She answered, sticking out her chin defiantly.  “And what about it?” 

He shrugged and put all the little pieces back into the basket.  “I just never would have known. You don’t-” 

“Have an accent.  Yeah, I know.” She watched and smiled at how gently he handled the tea set.  “I moved to Brooklyn for high school and my mountain speak kinda fell right out of my head.”  

“Yeah you talk like a New Yorker.”  He closed the clasp on the basket and placed it back on her desk.

At some points her hands ended up on his hips, pulling them closer to her own.  His eyes ended up looking into hers. His hand ended up brushing her cheek, fingers threading back into her hair, the softest hair he had ever touched in his life.  It wasn’t such a funny moment anymore, but he laughed anyway before lips ended up against lips, He allowed her to maneuver him, not breaking the kiss as she turned him, pushed him back until his knees hit the edge of the bed.  They fell into it, both of them laughing once again when the motion made their embrace falter, teeth hitting teeth, trying to decide whether he should spread his legs or she should spread hers, who fit where. 

Fletcher crossed his mind briefly, the idea that he had driven him here like a dad drives a twelve year old on his first date with some freckle faced girl he asked out in a school cafeteria, being just mildly unsettling.

But this wasn’t a burger joint, or pizza, or a movie theater.  This wasn’t like that “first date” feeling at all. 

She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, busied her fingers with unbuttoning his shirt, pressed gentle kisses to his neck and chest once it was bare.  Fletcher fell right out of his head.

His fingers slid up her legs, past her hips, under her shirt just slightly, touching the bare skin of her sides, not bold enough to push further without an invitation.  She, straddling his waist, sat up a bit more and took her shirt off, slowly, in just about the most sensual way possible, and tossed it carelessly over her shoulder onto the floor.  That was invitation enough. After hands and mouths had explored to their content, they separated long enough to rid themselves of the rest of their clothing, throwing each article they removed into a pile on the floor.  She produced a condom from the bedside table drawer. 

“I did actually bring some.”  He offered. “If you don’t want to use yours up or whatever.”  

She shook her head.  “Don’t know you well enough to trust you.”  
Fair enough.  

He shifted, got on his knees on the bed, rolled the condom on.  She was sitting on the bed, fully divested of any clothing, one leg bent, holding her knee to her chest and resting her chin on it.  Andrew made to push forward, to get between her legs, to lie her down on the bed. Angela protested wordlessly by pushing him backwards instead, onto his back, and straddling him once more, slowly lowering herself down onto his cock and smirking at his immediate reaction.  Once she was fully settled and he was itching to move, she leaned down, kissing his neck and then pressing her lips to his ear. “I kind of took you for the kind of guy who likes to be pushed around.” She whispered. “I think I was right.”

* * *

 

He woke the next morning to find himself asleep in her single, the two of them intertwined and his feet hanging off the edge just slightly.  After hesitating a moment, listening to her softly snoring with her head on his chest, he made the decision that he needed to leave. Slowly and carefully he tried to untangle himself from her, sliding his leg out from under hers, picking her arm up off of his torso and lying it gently by her side.  He somehow managed to support her head for long enough to replace his previous presence with a couple pillows. She didn’t wake up. When he’d gotten back into his trousers and put his shirt on, about to leave, he remembered that his phone was still dead and scrawled a goodbye on a floral lilac colored sticky note which he had called attention to as being “uselessly pretty” the night before, to which she responded with the words “just like me!”  He stuck it to the inside of her bedroom door.

_ Had a good time last night.  _

_ I stole a brownie.   _

_ Text me.  _

_ -Andrew _


	10. Tenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the semester is rolling around. Are things going to change? Andrew's relationships with everyone (including himself) are strained and turbulent. Let's just hope he can bounce back and learn the confidence it takes to maintain relationships. For now, have this turbulence. 
> 
> I get a bit meta with a joke in here. Best of luck. Hope you like it. Also, check out my Whiplash meme blog. doubletimeswing330.tumblr.com

Over the course of the next couple weeks, Andrew and Angela texted fairly often.  They made plans for another Saturday night, but Andrew had to cancel on account of a family dinner he had forgotten about.  On the other hand, he had gone to Fletcher’s that Friday night, which had ceased to be something he was nervous about and became more something he looked forward to.  

The last day of the semester rolled around, and Andrew did feel a bit of concern at that.  This meant he would see Fletcher considerably less often, and the idea that he might lose interest in him was certainly at the forefront of his mind.  He also knew that everyone would have to re-audition for him when fall semester came around, but that wasn’t so troubling. As long as he kept practicing and didn’t piss Fletcher off, it shouldn’t be an issue.

“Make sure you practice just as much over the summer, if not more.”  Fletcher called across the room. “Or you’ll come back next semester finding yourself back in kiddie band, where most of you fucks belong anyway.”   He walked towards his office, ready to leave the class for a few months without so much as a farewell, then paused. “Take your music. Leave the folders.  Don’t get sloppy.” And in he went, closing the door behind him, though not quite as hard as he’d been known to do so in the past.

Nobody milled around.  Everyone was out of there as hurriedly as possible, ready for a few months Fletcher free, of practicing leisurely, of drinking and partying, and vacationing in luscious places.  He on the other hand didn’t know what he would do without this band as the center of his life which he planned around and tailored everything to. He lingered by the kit, taking the sheet music out of the folder and sticking it into his bag, leaving his folder on the stand.  He ran his fingers across the cool surface of the cymbal, before noticing all the folders on stands and deciding that if he’s going to hang around, he may as well gather them up. 

Fletcher re-emerged from his office as he picked up the last couple from trumpet stands and was carrying the armful of folders to the table by the front of the room.  “Just can’t get enough?”

Andrew startled, not having heard him come out.  “Oh, just...lingering.” He shook his head at himself.  “I don’t actually even know what to do now.” 

Fletcher nodded and crossed the room, sitting down at the piano.  “I feel the same way.” He said finally after a stretch of silence.  “I remember being a student and going home on the last day of spring semester and just sitting there for hours wondering what to do with all my free time.”  

Andrew tilted his head, feeling a smile tug at his lips at the endearing confession.  “Really?” 

“No!”  Fletcher insisted loudly with a smile of his own.  He began playing a quiet tune that he didn’t recognize; not particularly fast, gentler than he ever expected to be produced by the same hands that slapped him in the face for going too slow.   “I went out. I partied. I drank my bodyweight, did drugs, had sex.” 

Andrew snorted.  Now that was a more believable confession.  “Drugs?” 

“Light drugs.”  Fletcher corrected with a shrug.  “Nothing hard.” 

He sat down on the drum stool, facing Fletcher.  “Well I told you before, I don’t have any friends.”  He thought briefly about Tanner and wondered if he had gotten into John Hopkins upon reapplication, wondered if he was enrolled during the summer, wondered if he might be back in New York now if not.

“I thought you were a little chummy with Dorian.”  Fletcher suggested. “And if you don’t have friends, who’s dorm did I drive you to a couple weeks ago?”

Andrew flushed.  “Just some...friend I guess.  I don’t know her that well.” He shrugged and looked down at the floor.  “And Dorian really only tolerates me.” 

Fletcher lifted an eyebrow at him and it felt like an accusation, but soon his eyes were back on the keys as the tune and conversation both began to mellow out.  “Well you can always practice. Study. See shows. If you can’t pull of being a social butterfly, maybe you can pull off trying to be a better drummer. 

Andrew hesitated and shrugged.  “Yeah.” He said finally. “That’s the plan.”

 

Angela texted him later that afternoon, wondering if he was free for dinner the next night.  As it happened, he was, and he told her that. Plans were made again, this time with no chance of cancellation.  

_ Where do you want to go? -Andrew _

_ I don’t know.  I’m vegetarian.  -Angela _

_ Pizza? -Andrew _

_ Sounds good.  Cheese pizza is my shit.  Where at? -Angela _

_ There was this guy who tried a slice of cheese from every joint in Manhattan. -Andrew _

_ What were his findings?  -Angela _

_ He said the best slice of cheese pizza in New York is at Pizza Suprema. -Andrew _

_ On 8th Avenue?  Works for me. Never been there.  -Angela _

 

“I can’t believe you stole brownies from me.”  Angela said teasingly, nudging his foot under the table with her own as an eighties pop song began to play on the speakers.

His mind flashed back to Nicole, how the first time they touched was a nudge under the table, the avoidance of eye contact once they both realized they were touching.  This was so different. They weren’t dating steadily, just seeing each other now and again. This was  _ hardly _ the first time they had touched, and neither of them looked away.  He even smiled, more comfortable with her now than he had been with Nicole after a couple months of dating.  “I’d have offered to buy them off you but you were still asleep.” He shrugged. “Why’d you think I bought the pizza tonight?  Just to be nice? I’m not nice.” He joked. 

“Oh yeah, you gotta spend that money your dad gives you sometime.”  She jibed back, picking up her slice and holding it flat in front of her face, taking the first bite.

“This is a good way to get rid of it.”  He answered. “But I gotta ask you, what the fuck are you doing?”  He taunted. “That is  _ not  _ how you eat pizza.”

She lifted her eyebrows, mouth full of pizza, shaking her head defiantly.  She swallowed and answered. “This is how I eat pizza! Unless it's really hot, and then I eat it with-”

“Don’t say it.” 

“A fork and knife.”  She leaned forward and smiled, shaking her head mockingly.  

“God.”  He sighed and picked his slice up, folding it in half and meeting her eyes as he took a large messy bite of it.

Angela rolled her eyes and took another bite of her pizza in her own way.

 

The dorm building was totally dead.  Most people had gone to their parent’s homes for summer, or were on vacation somewhere extravagant.  He made his way back up to his room and felt no remorse in playing his music loudly, now that he was the only one in the hall.  

Fletcher had encouraged him to be a normal young adult, to go to parties, to drink and have fun.  But now the dorms were empty. There were no parties to walk past and peek into. There was nobody in the hallway casually offering to sell him pills and weed and booze.  He cradled his phone in his hands, sitting on the floor in front of his bed, and realizing he really had nobody to text but Angela, and he didn’t want to text her. He didn’t want to lead her on or give her the wrong idea.  She had initially implied casual sex, and sure they’d had sex on the first date so things were rather going according to that plan, but she seemed to have developed more of an interest in him as time had gone on. Her texts had shifted from being innuendos and questions about sex to just being actual conversation, trying to get to know him.  He didn’t even know himself; But he knew he wasn’t cut out for relationships. They were too normal, too mundane, and required too much coordination on his part. There was always the concern that any relationship he had might eventually overlap with the situation he had with Fletcher, and he wasn’t ready to have to explain that to anyone.

Some part of him didn’t want to see her anymore despite enjoying her company, and he couldn’t find an answer as to why.

He scrolled through his contacts, pausing briefly by Nicole’s name, pausing for a lengthy amount of time by Tanner’s.  He even opened up a new message window. But before he could even type anything, common sense kicked in. This was useless.  Nobody wanted to talk to him, so why should he agonize over who to talk to? 

He jumped when his phone began buzzing in his hands and it tumbled to the floor, only to be picked back up quickly.

“Hey dad.”  He answered, standing and pacing his room like was always his habit when he was on the phone.  

“Hey, kiddo.  How are you doing?”  His dad asked, clearly drinking.  “It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to catch up.”  

Andrew smiled despite himself and turned to sit on the edge of his desk.  “I’m fine.” He responded. “Sad that the semester is over. And it’s kinda eerie now that most people have moved out of the dorm for the summer.”  

“You could have come home for the summer, you know.  You still can.” His dad quickly offered.

Andrew felt like shit for being the reason he was lonely, but the idea of going back now just didn’t appeal to him.  He’d been away from home for just under a year now, and moving back in wasn’t an option, especially not with everything that was going on now.  “Yeah, it’s just such a hassle to move in and out of the dorms.” There was a short pause and he could tell his dad was upset. “I’ll visit more often now though, now that I won’t be having rehearsals.”  

“Okay.”  But he didn’t sound satisfied.  “Well, I miss you pal. I wish you’d come for dinner Sunday night.  Uncle Frank and Travis won’t be there. Just aunt Emma and Dustin.”

Andrew looked out the window at the newly falling rain and suppressed a sigh.  “I’ll let you know, okay?”   
That seemed to pacify him, and the phone call ended with all their usual insincere cordiality.

 

He didn’t go to Fletcher’s that Friday night, nor did he go to his dad’s for dinner on Sunday.  He worked on his tempo, practiced every chart he could get his hands on. Headaches, broken blisters, and a high heart rate ailed him.  When he wasn’t drumming, he was sleeping. The first couple weeks of summer went like this, characterized mainly by self isolation. Then one Thursday morning when he was practicing, his phone began to ring on the floor beside him.  He noticed it light up and then saw Fletcher’s name flash across the screen. He dropped his sticks and picked the phone up, holding his breath as he let it ring twice more before answering it, not wanting to seem too eager. 

“Hello?”

“Busy Saturday?”  Came Fletcher’s brusque reply, wasting no time in getting to the point of this phone call.  

Andrew stood, pacing the floor beside the kit.  “Uh, no I don’t think so. Why?”

“Cyrus Chestnut is playing a trio at Dizzy’s.  I have reservations.” Fletcher responded. “It’s a table for two.  Be there at nine. Formal.” 

Andrew was briefly taken aback by how abrupt the invitation was, but that quickly gave way to flattery.  “Okay, should I still come over tomorrow night?” 

A pause.  “Were you planning on it?  You haven’t come over in a few weeks you know.”    
“I was planning on it.”  That was a lie. His confidence had been waning.

Another pause.  “Yeah, why not? You must be getting antsy.  I doubt you’re getting any anywhere else.” 

Andrew felt an edge of resentment for that statement and was half tempted to counter it, referencing Angela, whom he had spoken to the previous evening, but whom he hadn’t slept with since that first evening, of the final competition.  He didn’t though. “Should I just bring my clothes for Saturday when I come tomorrow?”

“You want to stay the night.”  Fletcher said, and Andrew couldn’t decide if it sounded like a question of a statement.  

“Yeah, I mean...it just makes good sense, right?  If I’m going out for dinner with you the following night.”  

Think you can handle a whole day with me?”  Fletcher asked.

Andrew hesitated and tapped the edge of the cymbal nervously.  “Probably, yeah.” 

“Best of luck.”  Fletcher responded with a smirk audible in his inflection.  “Bring an overnight bag then. See you tomorrow night.” 

Andrew went to mumble a goodbye but realized that Fletcher had already hung up.  He stood there for another moment, considering what he had just agreed to. For a fraction of a second, his eyes were drawn to the drums.

Then, feeling revitalized by the clear indication that he was still wanted, he packed his sticks away and bolted out of the room to go put together a suitable overnight bag.  

 

When the door opened, Andrew stood there awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and looking up from the concrete where his attention had been fixated.  He didn’t want to look too eager, but he had a feeling that at this point, he was being far too obvious about trying to look nonchalant. That assumption was cemented when he saw Fletcher looking at him judgmentally.  

“You know, you don’t have to wait for the formal greeting and the invitation in anymore.”  He said, not even obstructing the doorway where he stood. 

Andrew swallowed and nodded, stepping in and toeing off his shoes.  “Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t be so standoffish.” 

“Well you’re sober, how could you help it?”  Fletcher asked sarcastically as he shut the door behind him.  “You know, if your life was a story, the author would be getting real sick and tired of writing the door opening and closing over and over again.”  

Andrew rolled his eyes.  “Hey, physical transitions are important.”  

“It’s the introduction to action.”  Fletcher objected. “And here we are still lingering by the door because you’re such a obnoxiously timid and neurotic character.”  

After rolling his eyes once more, and then cringing slightly at the repetitiveness, he walked behind Fletcher into the living room.  He wrinkled his nose at an unusual scent in the house and looked over at the man. “What the hell is that smell?” 

“Hungry Man Dinner green beans.”  He answered.

Andrew recoiled.  “That’s horrible. Why don’t you eat like...real food?”  

Fletcher put a record on and sat down on the sofa with a sigh.  “I eat food when I go out.”

“How does a man with your physique survive on Hungry Man Dinner?”  Andrew asked, sitting down next to him, about a foot away, being bold but not too bold.  

“Meal replacement shakes and protein bars.”  Fletcher answered. “And lots of almonds.” He looked Andrew over.  “It’s not a bad way to live. You could stand to do a little meal replacement and workout now and again.” 

Andrew felt his face flush.  He grew massively uncomfortable at the seemingly negative comment about his appearance.  His brain was screaming at him to excuse himself and go to the bathroom, hide behind a door, freak out about the criticism alone.  But somehow, he forced himself to sit there silently, not a word of affirmation or disagreement.

He saw Fletcher frown, his forehead crinkling with the expression.  “What’s the matter with you?” 

Andrew shook his head, not looking at him, rather at the floor.  “Nothing.” He said stiffly. “I’m fine. I... I probably should do meal replacement regardless of how much I exercise.  I don’t eat often.” 

“What do you mean you don’t eat often?”  Fletcher questioned. “Like, what, just two meals a day?”  

He shrugged.  “Sometimes I just eat a granola bar.”  

“For a meal?  That’s not enough.”  
“I meant in a day.”  Andrew countered, body tensing.  He ran his hand over the back of his neck.  “I just...get distracted or busy or just don’t feel hungry.”  

Fletcher’s frown grew and he clenched his jaw.  “That’s not even a meal, let alone enough calories for a full day.  How do you expect to become an accomplished musician on that diet? Do you know how many calories you burn drumming?”  

Andrew hummed.  “My meds fuck up my appetite.”  He glanced over at him, seeing the questioning eyebrow lifted.  “I...it’s adderall.” 

“Ah.”  Fletcher nodded.  “Well have you eaten today?” 

Before he could get more than the word “no” out, he found himself sitting on the counter in the kitchen watching Fletcher throw almond milk, banana, and vanilla protein powder into a blender with a handful of ice.  “I’m really fine.” There was a part of him that was flattered that Fletcher gave a shit about whether he ate enough. Another part of him felt like an animal being raised for profit. 

Nonetheless, the shake was good.  

He washed it down with a double rum and coke and then two more shots of rum. 

When he found himself on his back again, he couldn’t help but smile, fond of the familiar feeling of being beneath Fletcher.  He drunkenly reached out and trailed his fingers almost reverently across Fletcher’s cheek, exhilarated with reassurance when the action seemed to draw forth the man’s orgasm.  That said, he quickly denied that Andrew’s actions had anything to do with it. Andrew finished second for once, by Fletcher’s hand rather than his own. 

They laid next to one another, sweat drenched and flushed, catching their breath and capturing this new sense of ease and familiarity with each other.  At some point Andrew had gotten up to search for his clothes, desperate to cover himself again. 

“What are you doing?”  Fletcher asked, tone of accusation in his voice.  

“Getting dressed.”  He picked up his pants that he didn’t remember folding from the dresser.  

Fletcher sat up and looked at him intently.  “Did I say I was fucking done looking at you?”  He asked. “Get your ass back over here.” 

Andrew blushed in a whole new light now, hesitant confidence propelling him back to the bed.  He laid back down and let Fletcher’s eyes rake possessively over him. Tiredness tugged at his eyelids until he found himself drifting in and out, dozing until finally he stopped drifting and just slept.


	11. Eleventh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We begin with Fletcher's point of view, an insomniac, as he stays up most of the night and wakes early when Andrew stays over. Summer passes quickly, and the semester starts again with just as much tension between players as before. They spend more time together once more, regularly, and Andrew is invited to a very important event.

An hour passed.  And then two. Somehow the bright red numbers on the face of his digital alarm clock did not feel so taunting as usual tonight, when he wasn’t lying in bed alone, in all his usual isolation. Fletcher usually tossed and turned until the first light of early morning, the first birds waking and perching to chirp on the terrace off his bedroom.  On those nights each glance he caught of the alarm clock felt like an acknowledgement of a personal shortcoming, as genetic as insomnia may be sometimes, and as much as any environmental factors were the result of his upbringing. Tonight was different. He looked at the numbers as they climbed their way up to 59 and then dropped back to 0 and then back to 59 and then back to 0 until it was 4:00.

Andrew stirred next to him, turning onto his side.

At some point, Andrew’s pleasantly soft torso pressed against him, his face burrowing in the crook of his neck, unwittingly no doubt.  He almost laughed at the thought of the sheer mortification Andrew might feel and express were he to wake and find himself pressing nearly every square inch of himself against Fletcher.  

For a brief moment he allowed himself to be concerned, fearing that the kid might misconstrue his attentions, might accidentally perceive an insult as an endearment, might imagine that there was something more going on than what there was; all that was going on was sex and creative education.  Andrew was blind enough to be used and blind enough to practically kill himself for approval. Of all the young musicians that had stumbled through the hallways of Shaffer Conservatory, Andrew was the one he’d identified as being most malleable. He wanted to be the best; that was his goal. Whether he wanted to be the best for his own satisfaction or for the approval of someone else had been arguable, but now it was clear he wanted praise, validation, approval, attention, and he wanted Fletcher to give him these things.  Fletcher’s attendance to him was merely to feed that desire, draw him out, make him work for it on multiple levels. Of course that’s all it was. The benefit of his body was agreeable, but sex was not the initial motivator. Andrew would be a better player for this.

Still, somehow he’d been surprised by how easy it was to be around him.  Once Andrew had gotten past that pathetic, meek, compliance shit, he’d actually proved to be a decent conversational companion, much more quick with a quip than he had ever expected.  

Quite the snorer, too.  He glanced at him and rolled his eyes, letting them fall shut with the movement.  

By the time he woke up, Fletcher had already gotten his necessary three hours and gotten up to go down to the basement for his daily workout regime, shower, and get dressed.  

“It’s about time you got up.”  He jibed, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on his sock.

Andrew turned his head to that infernal clock.  “It’s eight in the morning.”

“Sure is.”  He stood and lifted an eyebrow at him.  “I’ve been up for hours. Shower and get dressed.  There’s a towel on the vanity.” He left the room and made his way down to the kitchen without another word.  

The kitchen was the one room of the house with both an east and west facing window.  No matter what time of day, it was always awash with light, though morning and late afternoon were brightest. He always found himself squinting against it.  He started slicing bananas and peaches and carrots for the concoction of what he imagined to be every necessary vitamin to jumpstart his morning with.

Andrew on the other hand was glancing around his bathroom which he’d only stepped into in drunkenness which had rendered him unable to recall what it even looked like.  The grey granite vanity was just below a mirror that spanned the whole wall, and was immaculately clean and perfectly organized with a few personal care products; after shave, moisturizer, cologne, that’s why he always smelled so simply of sandalwood and vanilla.  The shower was as minimalist as the vanity.

He washed his hair, musing and obsessing over how embarrassing it was that he’d fallen asleep in the nude and laid there like that all night.  Fletcher had asked him to stay though, and hadn’t woken him to tell him to get dressed. Maybe that’s what he wanted to happen. _Who would want to sleep next to you naked?_ He huffed and rinsed the shampoo from his hair.  Also sandalwood. He curiously read the conditioner label, having been a three-in-one kind of person his whole life.  

Why the fuck did Fletcher have such expensive hair products?  Fletcher, of all people?

He peeked out of the bathroom when he was done showering, glancing around to ensure that Fletcher wasn’t in there before walking out and grabbing his bag from the floor by the bed and pulling out his boxers, and then the pair of grey trousers he’d brought.  He put on the tee shirt after a thought, considering that it was probably just best to put the button down and jacket on later when it was closer to the time to leave that evening. He hung both up by a hanger on the closet door knob.

Fletcher walked in as he was towel drying his hair and looked him over.  “You may as well put on your jeans from last night for right now.”

Andrew looked over at him.  “Why’s that?”

Fletcher lifted an eyebrow and handed him a glass of the smoothie he’d made.  “You think you’re not going to practice just because you’re here?” He questioned.  “Or do you just enjoy wearing sweat drenched pants out at night?”

After a wary look towards the strange colored smoothie, he met Fletcher’s eyes.  “How am I going to practice exactly?”

* * *

 

Andrew’s eyebrows were perpetually lifted as he looked around the expansive basement.  “You know when you said to follow you down to the basement, considering how we started, this was not what I expected.”   He asked. “How did I not know you had a basement?” He shook his head trying to fathom how on earth Fletcher managed to own a place this size in Brooklyn and didn’t rent any portion of it out.  Half of the basement had gym equipment essentials, a treadmill, stationary bike, free weight rack, bench, and barbell. The other half had an additional piano to the one upstairs in the living room, a drum kit, and a stack of instrument cases of varying sizes.  

“The only times you’ve been here have been rather one track mind sort of visits.”  Fletcher countered. “Of course you’d never seen any of this.” He opened a cabinet on the far wall and took out a pair of drumsticks, handing them to him before heading towards the exit. “You can stop at lunch time.”  He disappeared up the stairs.

Andrew was left standing in the middle of the basement feeling as though he were at some sort of very strange summer camp where the activities involved sex, drinking liquidized food, and practicing.  After a bit of hesitation and a light bit of snooping, he sat down at the stool, tapping at each drum to check pitch and finding them all to already be tuned. He wished he’d brought his music, but of course he had everything from last semester memorized and the main thing he needed to work on was speed and precision; the pieces were learned, good, but not perfected.  He started in with a run through. Finished. Squinted. That didn’t sound nearly fast enough. He looked around the room and his eyes landed on the cabinet.

Upon opening it, he found a metronome, an outdated one, but a metronome all the same.  He started it at 300. Played ten measures with it. Up to 320. That was more like it. Closer anyway.  350. That was the speed he needed to hit perfectly. He’d taken to perfecting things at twenty clicks faster than the marked tempo.  If he could play them that fast, he could play them a tempo. He set in to do just that: perfect it.

He took a break for lunch, which was a microwaveable meal that he only finished at Fletcher’s insistence and was far more and far worse than what he usually ate.  By the time it was time to get ready to go out, his ears were ringing. It had been annoying in the past but had become a familiar comfort. He washed his face and with his shaking, calloused hands, and combed his fingers through his hair.  He considered showering again, but decided against it, pulling on his trousers and throwing his tee shirt to the floor. He reached for the hanger his shirt and jacket were on, hesitated and turned back around to pick up and fold his tee shirt first before finishing dressing.

He walked downstairs and Fletcher was sitting, dressed and looking as incredible and put together as always, in the living room listening to a record. _You Go To My Head_. Who’s recording it was he couldn’t place, but it was one of the older ones.  Maybe Art Pepper?

 The man looked up as he stepped down off the stairs and made a face of muted approval.  “Not bad, kid.” He stood and walked over to him. “Surprised you have a suit that fits your right.  What’s this from, prom?” He asked, reaching up and rubbing the material of it on his shoulder with his knuckles.  

Andrew rolled his eyes.  “Oh, ha ha. Right. Like I even _went_ to prom.”  

Fletcher smirked.  “Was that supposed to be a defense?”  He asked with a scoff.

“That’s just sad.”  He pulled at the lapels, straightening his jacket and buttoning the top button for him.

They walked beside each other and he figured they’d take the subway, but Fletcher hailed a cab.  A cab from Brooklyn to midtown? With no thought? How the fuck?

“So I have to ask.”  Andrew started, once they were seated.  “I know it’s rude to ask about money, but how the fuck do you afford all of this?”  

“All of what?”  Fletcher asked, taking a cloth out of his inner jacket pocket to buff the face of his gold watch.  

Andrew’s eyes widened and he smiled in disbelieving amusement.  “All of it! The house, the furniture, the liquor, the clothes, the instruments and gym equipment, the expensive dinners, the lengthy cab rides!”  He shook his head and sat forward, leaning into his knees. “I mean I can’t even dream of having the kind of money to have and do the things you do.”  Fletcher spent money so flippantly, without a second thought, to the point that he didn’t even know what he meant when he asked about it.

He looked over at him then and shrugged, tucking the cloth back into his pocket.  “Inherited money. Invested it. I went a long time living with solely the necessities.  I’ve been working since I was twenty, teaching at Shaffer for going on twenty eight years, I’m tenured.”  He even seemed flippant about the explanation. “That’s the thing about only children. Even if their parents hate them, they tend to get spoiled one way or another.”  

“I’m an only child too.”  Andrew thought about his dad, how much he’d been avoiding him lately, and guilt crept into his mind.  He didn’t want the little bit of money his dad would be able to leave him to be left begrudgingly. Maybe it was time to suck it up and start trying to be a good son again, as boring and critical as most of his family could be.  At least movie nights again.

“I’m not surprised by that.”  Fletcher answered. “You’re too stubborn and headstrong to have grown up with peers.  No wonder you’re such a freak.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and smiled, interpreting the insult as an endearment.  “My dad didn’t spoil me.” He protested. “You’re doing that more than anyone.”  

“How do you figure that?”  Fletcher asked.

Andrew shrugged.  “Taking me out to clubs, dinner, buying me drinks, the whole nine yards.”  

Fletcher shrugged again without a word.  Andrew always liked saying something that left Fletcher with no retort.  

* * *

 

Summer passed quickly after that, and he regretted that it had, despite how apprehensive he had been about the season.  He went over every Friday night, stayed over twice more in the month of July, once to go to another show the following night, and once just because.  

When the first of the semester rolled around, he only briefly felt nervous about his audition before he remembered then that he’d been practicing nonstop.  His rudiments were unflawed. He had practiced across the board, all styles, all tempos, all the time. He hadn’t been distracted in the slightest other than going to Fletcher’s, and even when he was there, he at least spent some of that time practicing.  He hadn’t texted Angela in weeks. Her name had popped up on his phone screen every day for a while, then every few days, then once a week, and then finally she must have given up. Guilt, once more, but it was in both of their best interests. Just as he’d told Nicole, he could just never give someone the amount of time an attention they expected, especially now.

Connolly sat next to him by the drums, waiting for Fletcher come out of his office.  Rhythm section auditions were last of the band. He didn’t seem nervous either, despite not having been core when they left the previous semester.  

Fletcher finally walked out, standing in front of the drums with his arms crossed and looking down his nose, back and forth between the two of them.  He nodded, lips pursed, contemplating. “Alright Neiman, let’s start with rudiments. Seven stroke roll.”

Andrew didn’t hesitate, keeping his eyes on Fletcher for any change in instruction.  

“Triple paradiddle.”  

He rolled into the paradiddle.  

They played this simon says game for a while; double ratamacue, double drag tap, Swiss Army triplet, single flammed mill, multi-bounce roll, etc.  Fletcher cut off with a barely perceivable move of his hand. Andrew stopped and Fletcher nodded at him. He and Connolly switched and he did the same thing, although he asked for less rudiments and seemed to be done with him much faster.  They switched back and Andrew played the sight reading excerpt through with no mistakes other than a slight drag in the third measure of fifty. Connolly played it and got cut off twenty measures in.

“Neiman, core. Congrats.  Connolly, alternate.” Fletcher said simply without ceremony.  “You both had better hope I don’t happen upon somebody better. Neither of you are irreplaceable.”  

Starting where they’d left off; fierce competition and humiliation.

* * *

“Connolly like...rams into me in the doorway every time we walk out of rehearsal.”  Andrew said with a scoff, sipping the glass of what the fuck ever it was. His muscles relaxed, his eyes were half lidded, and he couldn’t stop looking at Fletcher sitting next to him.

“What for?”  Fletcher asked without looking at him, holding an empty glass in his hand.  

Andrew shrugged.  “He’s jealous I guess.”  He turned his glass in his hand, looking at the cloudy spot where his lips had touched it, a glaringly obvious imperfection when the light from the streetlamp hit it through the window.  It was getting so late it was early. “He’s been at Shaffer longer and he and I made studio band in the same year and he isn’t even core.”

As he stood and walked to the bar cart, he gave Andrew a look.  “Better be careful not to get cocky. That could all change real quick.”  

Andrew rolled his eyes and leaned back further into the cushions, which had been stiff with disuse when he had first seen them, but were now comfortably pliable after so many evenings of him sitting in the same spot.  “Wouldn’t you miss me if you kicked me out?” He asked, voice whiny and eyes still trained on him, bright and hopeful despite so much debasement as he had received since meeting Fletcher, and so much liquor he had drank in the same time.  

Fletcher breathed out through his nose, seemingly in disagreement.  He poured another drink, not bothering with a chaser like he generally didn’t bother with a chaser.  

Andrew watched as he tipped the glass, drinking every last drop in a single swig, unaffected.  He was already standing before he realized that he was, and sinking to his knees in front of the man before he had even considered the action in full thought.  

Somehow he missed Fletcher’s expression, but he didn’t miss the way his hand tangled in his hair, how the other one brushed across his cheek.  It was gentle at first, and it didn’t surprise him anymore to witness Fletcher being soft like this. He smirked, just slightly. “You _would_ miss me.”    

Then his cheek was stinging from the impact of a hard slap in the face.  It caught him off guard and he fell back a bit, sitting on his heels, looking down at the floor.  His hands left the floor and he brought one of them to his cheek, touching the place where it now was warm.  Tears nearly sprung to his eyes, and after a moment of deliberation, he decided it was because he wasn’t expecting it, not because of the action itself or anything it might convey. He looked back up when he heard the zipper on his pants coming down.  The briefest of hesitations was the only thing that deterred him at all, and very quickly he had forgotten the slap and moved forward to prove himself worth keeping around.

Fletcher’s hands were back in his hair, gently as before.  After a few minutes, Andrew’s lips and chin messy with saliva, he gripped his shoulder, a silent request that he look up.  Andrew drew his eyes upwards, meeting his eyes and feeling uneasy about it for the first time in weeks. Fletcher took control of their rhythm, holding his head steady and pushing his hips forward.  Andrew focused on relaxing enough for this to work but not enough to forget his goal. A few moments more and Fletcher climaxed, without warning and without pulling away from him.

When he did pull away, Andrew sat down heavily on the floor, exhaustion numbing him.  He leaned against the chair and let his head fall against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut.

He opened them again and was faced with the man holding out his coke to him.  He looked down at him, eyebrow raised, lips quirked in a smug grin. “Chaser?”   

* * *

The set list was much more intensive this semester, and he was lucky that the bassist showed up ten minutes late on the first day, otherwise he was sure he would have gotten yelled at for something or other.  As soon as rehearsal was over,Fletcher had walked back to his office. Andrew looked over his shoulder and found himself drawn to the door by a smirk from the man that was clearly an invitation.

The door was shut and his back pressed against it and everything happened as it had happened before.  He fumbled with Fletcher’s zipper but Fletcher tugged at his shirt and bit at his neck, so he let his hands fall to his sides, head falling back and eyes falling shut.  Just then, he felt pressure on his back. His eyes were back open within a second, widened with panic. Fletcher simply moved him from against the door in one swift, quick motion, without a second thought, and moved into the doorway.  

“Dr. Fletcher.”  Came a cordial greeting.

“I was just on my way to your office actually.”  Fletcher replied, voice only slightly more husky than usual.  

Andrew pressed himself against the wall, hoping that the door concealed him completely.  The last person who needed to know about this? The Dean. And that was her. He peered through the crack in the door, looking over one of the hinges as Fletcher and she left the office and then the room.  She had glanced over his shoulder and he gasped and ducked back behind the wall, unsure if she had even seen him.

It was probably for the best.  With the amplified difficulty and technicality of these new pieces, he needed to practice.  He let some time pass and then grabbed his backpack and music folder, heading to the practice room to get working on learning, memorizing, and perfecting this new setlist.  The only thing that distracted him was checking his phone neurotically throughout the afternoon, but Fletcher didn’t call or text or email or anything. He even refreshed his email a few times.  Still nothing. That was that, he supposed. He would see him again at the evening rehearsal anyway.

When he walked into that rehearsal, he exclaimed as Connolly pushed past, slamming him into the doorframe.  He whipped his head around, seeing him glancing at him from the side smugly, and for once he felt the need to retaliate, anger blurring the edge of his vision.  So he caught back up with him and stuck his foot out just barely enough to trip him. He didn’t fall, but he stumbled, and when he glared at Andrew, Andrew pulled the most innocent face he could.  “You okay there? Lose your balance?” He asked. Connolly didn’t respond as they took their seats, just scowled and crossed his arms over his chest while Andrew got out his music and tuned the set.

* * *

“Go where?”  

Fletcher was between his legs, standing by the edge of the bed, pushing his knees back with his hands while he established their usual rhythm.  “It’s a gala.” He responded. “They have it every year. It’s like a fundraiser for local jazz groups. There’s performances and then a reception in the lobby of the Billie Holiday Theatre.”  He punctuated the sentence with a particularly deep thrust, gently smoothing his hand up Andrew’s thigh when he tensed. “It’ll be good exposure. You could meet some big names, introduce yourself, try to make an impression.  I know it’ll be rough with you appalling lack of social skills.” End every sentence with a jibe. That was truly his way.

Andrew breathlessly scoffed, hooking his legs at the knee over Fletcher’s arms.  “Help me out here, would you? I can only keep my legs up in the air for so long.”  Fletcher obliged. “That sounds okay, but won’t people think it’s strange? You bringing me along, that is.  I mean to like a formal, adult event like that.”

Fletcher shook his head.  “No, I’ve brought students along before.  Couple times.” He looked up but looked away when Andrew met his eyes and for some reason it was an unsettling avoidance of eye contact. It felt like a shield.  He never looked away from him when he met his eyes during sex.

He gripped at his arms, pretending it wasn’t strange.  “Yeah, I’ll go.” He arched his back, pressing closer to him, trying to catch his eye again.  He hesitated, and then smiled. “Harder.” He whispered. Fletcher met his eyes then.

* * *

As much as he insisted he could just wear his concert attire, being that it was a pretty decent suit, Fletcher insisted he needed a new one for the event.  Andrew’s leg bounced nervously, sitting on a leather chair in a men's clothing shop which was as warmly lit and deep in color palette as Fletcher’s house. The man himself was speaking with a guy behind the counter quietly a few feet away, who kept glancing over at Andrew and nodding.  The longer he sat there the more anxious he got, and he was actually considering just running out. He’d run away from the Fletcher situation before, why shouldn’t he now? Especially in a classy store like this where he knew he was going to have to stand for measurements.

Sure enough, they approached him and the guy held one of those fucking tape measures in his hand.  He looked nice, gentle smile, young face, well trimmed hair and beard. He tilted his head at him. “You look nervous. Ever been measured for a fitting before?”

Andrew shook his head as he stood, holding his arms behind his back just so they didn’t hang awkwardly by his sides.  “No, I generally wear stuff like...well, this.” He gestured at his jeans and oversized button down that did little to flatter him, though it did at least keep his body hidden for the most part.  

He nodded and extended a hand, shaking his.  “Well nice to meet you. I’m Carl Donan.”

The fact that his name was Carl may have been a factor, but Andrew warmed up to him very quickly, despite the events of the day.  “Andrew Neiman, nice to meet you.”

Carl smiled warmly.  “Okay, so follow me.”  He followed him back to a more isolated part of the store, a room with three walls, covered in mirrors.  He chewed his thumbnail absently as he glanced around. Fletcher sat down in the chair by the front to wait.  “Nice director, huh? I can’t imagine ever having a teacher buy me a new suit.”

Andrew smiled and breathed out a laugh.  “Yeah. He’s...he’s nice.”

He faced him and straightened his shoulders.  “Okay, so what you’re wearing is a little boxy for me to measure. Are you wearing boxers?  If you don’t mind just taking the jeans and top shirt off and we’ll get started.” He noticed Andrew’s apprehensive look and the way he glanced towards the mirror when he’d said to undress.  After a moment’s hesitation, he moved to pull curtains to cover most of the mirrors, then patted Andrew’s shoulder understandingly before moving to the other side of the room and getting a clipboard off the wall.

Andrew swallowed and nodded his thanks.  His hands shook just a touch as he unbuttoned his shirt and put both it and his jeans on a bench next to him, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt in front of an absolute stranger.

But the guy seemed to understand.  “I’m going to measure your chest, waist, neck, sleeve length, and inseam, and write all the measurements down.”  He said gently, walking back over. “If you get uncomfortable, just tell me and we can take a break. Do you want me to keep the chart out of your sight, or do you mind seeing the measurements?”  

Andrew felt his chest flutter just slightly, feeling unbelievably validated and respected in a way he never would have imagined during this process.  “I...I think I’d rather not see it, thank you.” He managed to get out. “I really appreciate that, thank you.” He said sincerely.

Now that the anxiety factor had shrunk, the process didn’t seem so nerve wracking.  He went through each measurement, announcing them before doing them, and kept the clipboard on the floor behind him.  When he was done, he took it over to the desk and put it down under a log sheet of customers. “Alright, that’s done. And the best thing is you never have to do it again, unless you fluctuate a lot.”  He offered up a smile and walked him back out front where Fletcher sat waiting. “Alright so we’ll have that ready as soon as Wednesday and give you a call when you can come pick it up. If you want anything else, we’ll have your chart on file and you can just come pick things out.  Simple as that.”

Andrew thanked him, smile on his face as sincere as ever.  Fletcher thanked him as well, and stopped to talk to him just a bit more, getting a business card from him before they left.  

* * *

Andrew put the suit on that Saturday evening, the night of the gala.  When he looked in the mirror, he felt a smile worm it’s way onto his face without warning.  Everything fit right. His shoulders looked more defined. He looked much thinner than he ever thought he looked.  He buttoned the jacket, unbuttoned it, buttoned it back, straightened his tie, and the smile just grew bigger. Everything about it was perfect, from the fit to the deep grey color and the material.  He looked sophisticated, mature, and he’d even go as far as to say he looked moderately attractive.

The thought was only strengthened when he walked back out of the bedroom as Fletcher was about to walk in, and the man’s hands were on his hips in less than a second as he looked him over and pulled him closer.  “Nobody’s even going to know you’re a student, dressed like this.”

“Really?”  He asked, smile spreading across his face.

Fletcher scoffed and took his chin in hand, tilting his head to the side enough for him to press a few rough kisses to his jaw.  “No, not really. With that baby face? They’re going to be surprised to hear you aren’t still struggling with your ACT scores.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and pushed him off, gently.  “We’re going to be late, you know.”

“Me?  Never.”  He shook his head assuredly, ducking back into the bedroom and getting dressed himself.  

* * *

They walked in together and Andrew had never felt so mature in his life.  They were both handed glasses of champagne as soon as they entered, and his lips twitched in a slight smile, remembering briefly that no matter how much he drank, he was still technically underaged.  People in formal attire, most of them over fifty, some of them younger, were meandering around the lobby speaking to one another. He looked around, recognizing a few faces in the crowd.

“Terence!”  Called a larger man around Fletcher’s age, but looking worse for wear with his physique and yellowing skin, as he walked over.  “Good to see you again, it’s been a while, huh?” He extended a hand to him,

Fletcher shook it, but looked reluctant to do so, the slight scowl on his face giving off the air that he was a bit peeved by the man’s attention.  “Yeah, Jerome, it’s been about a year. You know, since we last saw each other here?”

The guy leaned back a touch and laughed heartily.  “Oh, you know. I lose track of time.”

Fletcher smiled tightly.  “Maybe that’s why your band is always out of it.”  

The man just laughed harder, perceiving it as more of a good natured joke than it was.  “Always the kidder. Seriously, good to see you again. Where’s that kid, huh? From the last couple years?”  He asked. “What was his name anyway? Casey something or other?”

Andrew lifted his eyebrows, then realized that though he had stopped walking when Fletcher had, he wasn’t standing all that close to him at the moment and the fact that they’d come together could have been missed by anyone.  Casey?

Fletcher cleared his throat and looked down.  “Sean Casey. Actually, he passed away recently. Though I had been out of touch with him for a little over a year.  He didn’t come with me to the last one.” He straightened his jacket and then gestured to Andrew. “This is my guest for the evening, my core drummer.  Andrew Neiman, this is Jerry Seldan. He’s a director at Berklee.” He introduced them. Andrew awkwardly leaned forward, realized he was too far away to just lean, and then shuffled towards him to shake his hand.  

“Ah.  New one, huh?”  He shook Andrew’s hand without looking at him for very long.  “Well anyway, nice to see you.” He moved away from them, grabbing another glass of champagne from a man’s tray and glancing over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked between them.

Fletcher inhaled and huffed. “That man irritates me like you wouldn’t believe.”  He said through a phony smile.

Andrew hummed.  “I believe it.” He countered.  “You seemed pretty annoyed with him.”  They continued walking. “Sean Casey, the trumpet player you talked about?”  

“Hm?”  He sipped his champagne and glanced over at Andrew.  “Ah, um, yes. Sean came to this a couple times while he was my student.”

Andrew looked at him from the side, but Fletcher seemed to not want to meet his gaze.  A few moments passed and he finally looked away, deciding not to press even though the subject seemed so tempting to press.  

A large bass drum with no head covering it sat in the middle of the room on a table, and was filling up with donations fast, cash and checks alike.  Fletcher stopped there briefly and wrote out a check, dropping it in amongst the others.

They listened to a trio in the lobby, mingled a bit more, had a few more drinks.  Fletcher excused himself to talk with a colleague at some point, and Andrew grazed the refreshments table.  He overheard a couple of women as they walked by.

“That’s who Terence Fletcher brought with him this time.”  

“Another young boy?”  

“That’s right.  Drums, I think that’s what Seldan said.”  

“Hm.  He’s going to get himself fired someday.”  

“Are you kidding?  He’s tenured.” The other one responded with a squeaky laugh.  “They’d have to ask him to resign if anything ever got out, but I doubt if he’d do it.”

Andrew blinked and turned to watch them walk away after they’d passed him.   _What the hell was all that about?_  Maybe he’d been naive to assume he was the first student Fletcher had ever fooled around with, but there was a part of him that had hoped he was the first he’d ever been close enough with to bring along to an event like this.  The more he looked around the room, the more eyes he saw looking judgmentally at him, the more people gestured his direction and then leaned in to whisper to their counterparts. He turned to the other side of the room, and found the same thing, subtle as it was.  

And then a voice announced that the performances of the evening were going to start in a moment inside the auditorium.  Fletcher appeared again by his side and he looked over at him, opened his mouth, and then shut it again, not wanting to mention this on the chance that it would only upset both of them to talk about.  

Fletcher looked at him curiously, eyebrows knitted together.  “What’s wrong with you? Is the crab dip bad or something?”

Andrew shrugged and forced out a laugh.  “I’m allergic to shellfish, actually.”

They walked into the auditorium, and took their seats towards the middle.  There were a few people still staring, still whispering, there was no way that Fletcher hadn’t noticed that.  He was ignoring it as much as Andrew was trying to. Something was off. Something was wrong, and he was amazed that he hadn’t considered it before, that maybe Fletcher had a type, and that he was it.  Maybe seducing and using young boys was a habit of his. Maybe he would be done with him soon too, and some other twenty year old student would be coming to these things with him within a year.

After the band was announced and had performed a whole set, applause to follow, a man walked up onstage to announce that it had been a very successful year indeed, and that they had raised well past their goal, giving a very special personal thanks to the donor who had given the largest lump sum, like he does every year, Terence Fletcher.  All eyes their direction again.


	12. Twelfth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I steal some lines from the film here, because some of the same things needed to happen but under different circumstances. Very angsty chapter just as a warning. A misunderstanding leads to Fletcher getting upset and drawing away from Andrew. In turn, Andrew strives to win back Fletcher's attention and affection while his ego continues to grow without the aid of the man's approval. Some tensions get resolved and solidarity gets shown, but in the end, was this all Fletcher's orchestration to begin with?
> 
> (If you guys comment and give me kudos on this chapter, I very well may feel motivated enough to update as early as this Sunday night)

Andrew practiced, and he practiced, and he practiced.  And one day, he stopped practicing. He was overcome by a very sudden swell of anger and longing, all tangled up into one ugly emotion.  He stood, mid stroke, and hurled his sticks across the basement and they hit the cabinet loudly, then fell to the floor with blunt inelegance, the same way he seemed to do anything anymore.  Thoughts raced through his mind, words he’d never thought, sentences he’d never constructed.  _ I do all of this because I want it, but does anyone else want it?   _ What was the point of putting his literal blood, sweat, and tears into something if he was the only one who was ever,  _ ever  _ going to appreciate it?  

Was he really this creature?  This creature fuelled by approval?  The only bit of that he got anymore was from Fletcher and it was all shrouded in insult.  He didn’t even really get it from his dad anymore. He’d passed the point of being able to pretend that the short, meaningless words of praise were actually that, realizing once and for all that they had always been a way of keeping him tethered.  He asked about his world just enough to make sure it overlapped with his own. That’s all anyone ever did. Nobody cared about the things he cared about as much as he did, or anywhere near in the same  _ way  _ he did.  But he wanted them too.   _ God _ did he want them to.  He wanted someone to relate to on every level.  He wanted a peer who could understand. He wanted something, anything, and he could feel it in his grasp... only it wasn’t really there.  It was an imagined release, one that he chased despite knowing it was all inside his-

“Are you done having a meltdown, or should I come back in a few minutes?”  Fletcher asked, standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on the bannister, lips upturned just slightly.  

“I’m...”  He huffed and shook his head.  “I’m fine. No meltdowns here, just-”

“Frustration?”  Fletcher offered.  “Teenage angst? Tantrum?  Have I been neglecting you?  Does somebody need his bottle?”  He asked in a singsong voice. 

“No, I’ve got-” He had picked the whiskey bottle up off the floor beside the kit before he realized what Fletcher meant.  “What did you want?” 

Fletcher lifted his eyebrows.  “Aren’t we going to get food?” 

“Oh.”  Andrew nodded and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.  “Yeah, sorry. I don’t know how I forgot about that.” 

“I don’t know how you got up earlier than me.”  Fletcher answered as the both mounted the stairs. 

He shrugged.  “Me either.” Except that he did know.  He was up first because he'd never fallen asleep.

* * *

 

They went to Greene’s, Andrew’s favorite diner in Brooklyn because they were one of the few places other than home where he had ever had latkes made right.  He had insisted upon going there with Fletcher sometime and had insisted enough that finally he convinced him to go. 

As he should have expected though, Fletcher’s palette was far more sophisticated than his own, strangely so for someone who ate t.v. dinners as often as he did, and the food was far too greasy for his liking.  He ended up having a cup of coffee and toast, only obliging enough to eat one latke just to make Andrew stop pushing them at his face. 

He seemed irritable, rolling his eyes at him, glaring at him, telling him to cut it out, deflecting all food Andrew put on his plate. 

Just as Andrew was about to get discouraged and give up trying to have a good morning, Fletcher nudged him with his elbow and pointed at the one latke left on the plate.  “You mind if I take the last one?” He asked. 

Andrew smiled. “You ever think you’re going to end up just putting everyone off?”  

“What do you mean?”  Fletcher asked, eating the latke and washing it down with coffee.  

“I mean you push people and push people.”  Andrew answered. “You don’t just push them, you also push them away.”  

Fletcher shrugged.  “I push people beyond what’s expected of them for a reason.  Otherwise I’m depriving the world of the next Charlie Parker, or the next Louis Armstrong.  You think if those guys had just been praised for everything they would have ever become what we know them as today?”  

Andrew finished off his orange juice.  “But is there a line? Like you go too far, and you discourage the next Charlie Parker from ever becoming...Charlie Parker?” 

Fletcher shook his head and leaned forward.  “No, man. No. Cause the next Charlie Parker would never be discouraged.”

* * *

 

August had rolled into September, and September quickly turned to October.  The leaves on the trees around campus had all turned, warm colors surrounding them as the cold air blew in.  You couldn’t walk past a dorm without dealing with the noise of a motion activated Halloween decoration. Some students had big buckets of candy sat outside their door, and that he did appreciate and take advantage of from time to time.

At some point during the month while out for dinner on a Friday after a particularly rough rehearsal, Andrew had drunkenly asked Fletcher if he was seeing anyone else, against all judgement of course.  Fletcher had given him an indecipherable look before replying that no, in fact he wasn’t. Another faceless waiter came by to refresh their drinks. 

“Neither am I.”  Andrew answered. “Are you going to?  Like...do you plan...are you planning on seeing anyone else?”  

Fletcher hesitated, then shrugged, taking yet another sip of yet another glass of wine.  “Potentially, given some possible opportunity. But I don’t think so, no.” 

Andrew felt a smile cross his face and he looked down to hide it.  Just the idea that he was enough, that Fletcher was satisfied with just him, that he didn’t want or need anyone else was an unbelievable boost to his ego.  He felt secure, self assured, comfortable, things he hadn’t felt since he was too young to know he was feeling them. He looked back up to be met with Fletcher’s rolling eyes, and decided that it was likely the closest thing to affection he was capable of expressing without physical touch, so he took it as such.

* * *

 

He didn’t think about the conversation again until the next Friday night when it suddenly became relevant again.  

They were listening to a record in the living room, sharing drinks and exchanging banter.  Andrew excused himself to the bathroom, absentmindedly leaving his phone behind and sitting on the coffee table. 

He was pleasantly warm from the drinks.  His breath was shallow, but not strained. For once, the reflection he saw in the mirror did not taunt him; he looked himself over and blurred as his vision may be, was pleased by what he saw.  He hummed and smiled, then washed his hands, not bothering to let the water heat up before doing so. 

He walked back to the living room, past the dark, empty formal dining room, past the surprisingly brightly decorated kitchen.  

Fletcher looked up when he entered the room, then humphed and looked down at the floor, lips pressed together in a thin line.  

Andrew’s eyebrows knit together in concern.  “What?” He asked, nerves creeping back up on him.  “What’s wrong?” 

The man stood and stumbled, clearly more drunk than usual and just as clearly upset.  Andrew blinked, swallowing to choke back concern. He’d never seen Fletcher anything but composed.  A patronizing and accusatory phony smile replaced the tight lipped grimace. “Oh, nothing.” He spat back, dismissive tone of voice so forced that it was unavoidable not to notice. “I  _ was _ under the impression that we weren’t seeing anyone else, since you  _ explicitly said that  _ but,” He breathed out a laugh and threw Andrew’s phone at his chest.  “I guess a man can change, huh?” 

Andrew fumbled and then caught the phone, face screwed up in confusion, and he pressed the home button.  Shit. 

_ I miss you.  What are you doing tonight? -Angela _

_ Come over again.  I have more brownies.  -Angela _

_ We get along so well.  Why do you ignore me all the time? -Angela _

He looked back up as Fletcher started ascending the stairs.  “No, wait. Let me explain, you don’t understand.” 

“It’s not a big deal.”  Fletcher answered flippantly, without turning around.  “It’s not like you  _ mean  _ shit to me.”  He paused and turned back towards him.  “It’s just, I know you’d try to make me feel guilty if I had-”  He scoffed and put his hands up noncommittally to mime quotation marks around the word. “ _ Cheated  _ on you or whatever it is you’re calling it in your head.”  He laughed, although his air of being aloof was neither strengthened or damaged by this clear mask of indifference.  “I just feel like I may as well torture you over it a little bit, huh?” 

Andrew winced, the longer Fletcher spoke, the more he realized he was legitimately offended.  That made it all the more difficult to explain away. “I am not  _ cheating _ on you.”  He insisted.  “Angela is just... just a friend.  We were briefly seeing each other, but it wasn’t even this semester.”  

Fletcher nodded curtly.  “Last semester, huh? She’s the one at Pratt?  Whose dorm I dropped you off at?” 

Andrew sighed.  “I...yes. Yeah.  That one.” He ran a hand nervously through his hair.  “But that’s not...I haven’t seen or talked to her in months, Fletcher.  Not since summer.” 

He shrugged again and let his arms fall listlessly to his sides.  “I told you, junior, it doesn’t make a goddamn difference to me.” He mimed a yawn and smirked at him, every movement and word reeking of accusation.  “You know, I think I’m off to bed. Why don’t you show yourself out?” He gestured to the door and then turned away, unceremoniously climbing the stairs.  “I’m sure you’ll sleep most soundly in your girlfriend’s bed.” 

Andrew made to say words of protest but by the time he had opened his mouth to protest, the bedroom door had shut.   _ Goddamn.   _ Why did she have to text now?  He looked over the texts and sighed.  It was best not to respond. Enough damage had been done, and he couldn’t do anymore.  For everyone’s sake.

* * *

 

Rehearsals got more intense.  A jazz competition was taking place at Carnegie Hall in December.  Studio Band had been selected by an expansive committee to open the event.  They were chosen out of everyone, from all the best schools across the whole country.  It was an honor. Sure it was an honor. But right now, it was more of a stressor than anything.  

Fletcher was being especially aggressive in lieu of the festival, and had been for weeks.  Nobody was safe or protected from his perfectionism and anger, and he was sure that his own involvement with Fletcher didn’t help.  He was just as irritable outside of band. Andrew had continued to come over every Friday night, not looking to isolate himself again.  Sex had taken a turn, becoming more violent and intense, not that he was complaining. He liked being treated roughly, and that was no secret.  It was concerning though that the change had occurred a few weeks ago, right after Angela had texted and Fletcher had seen. Andrew had since blocked her number.  As much as Fletcher had insisted that he didn’t give a shit, both that night and the days following, he seemed upset and he certainly seemed more withdrawn.

He went over one Friday night, wearing the remote control plug as instructed before he left rehearsal that day, and knocked on the door, only to be greeted by Fletcher grabbing his shirt and pulling him in, slamming the door and pushing him against it.  Only it was with much more force than he usually did so. He grunted when his back and then head hit the door and winced, but he hardly had time to react to it before he realized Fletcher had handcuffed his hands behind his back. 

“I...what are you-”

“Shut the fuck up.”  Fletcher answered coolly.  “You can expect to have your drinks through a straw this evening, and rest assured that you won’t be getting any form of release for a very long time.”    
He certainly followed through.  An hour of heavy petting through his clothes brought him to a place where he felt the need to ask, to beg.  They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Fletcher pulled him to his feet, and undid Andrew’s pants, pushing them down to his ankles and lying him down, on his back, on the sofa.  At least two more hours passed, filled with mindless and inebriated pleads. Andrew squirmed on the sofa as Fletcher’s hand moved tortuously slowly over his erection. He started low with the vibe, but turned it up until it was on it’s highest setting.  His hand picked up speed and he brought him close, closer, closer still, and Andrew let out a cry of frustration when he took his hand away at the most inopportune moment, allowing the intensity of the plug to continue to torture him. His breaths came faster and faster and he begged.  It had been too long. He wanted it, he wanted his orgasm. He bucked upward into his hand, only for Fletcher to take it away and then to slap him in the face with it. 

“Fucking be patient.”  He demanded.  "What, do you think you deserve it?”  

Andrew looked up at him, eyes welling up with tears from who knows what, but he didn’t answer. 

Fletcher turned off the vibe and Andrew wasn’t sure if it was better or worse now that that stimulation was gone.  He got up from where he was knelt on the floor and walked to where Andrew’s head laid on the sofa. “Do you think you deserve to have an orgasm now?  Or do you deserve to be abused more first?” 

Andrew knew the answer couldn’t be the latter, though why he could not say.  If that was the answer, Fletcher wouldn’t have asked. “I deserve to be abused more first.”  He whispered, eyes falling shut into a wince, knowing that meant it could be so much longer before he got release.  “I...I deserve to be used.” 

“Used?”  Fletcher’s hand tangled in his hair and pulled, turning his face towards his, less than an inch away.  “And how should I use you?” 

“Any way you want.”  He breathed out, eyes open once more and flickering from Fletcher’s eyes to his lips and back to his eyes.  “Anything you want.” 

His face twitched, and at first Andrew didn’t know if it was a smile or a grimace, but when he let go of his hair and stood, nodding, he knew he’d given the right answer.  “That’s right.” He answered, turning away from him, fondling the remote to the plug in his hand. “Anything I want indeed. Because you’re my plaything, you remember that?”  

Andrew blinked, thoughts going back to that first day all those months ago in Fletcher’s office when he invited him over, when he laughed at him for kissing him, when he first showed him these cuffs.  “I remember.” He said softly, though his hips still keened upward into nothing. His desperation for release had not dissipated in the absence of attention. He found his eyes drawn to the whiskey bottle Fletcher had opened when he first got here earlier in the evening and his eyebrows knitted together, seeing that the majority of it had been drunk, and knowing himself to only have had six shots worth.  

He kept his mouth shut and the vibrator turned back on, no hesitation on Fletcher’s part, he turned it on immediately to the highest setting.  

Andrew’s legs shook and his feet searched for purchase on the sofa, but found none.  Fletcher’s hand was back on his cock, faster than before. He brought him to the edge, then stopped.  Andrew bit the inside of his cheek to keep from vocalizing his agony. Fletcher ran his fingers over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, pinching and lightly scratching, keeping the sensory input high between edging.  Three more times did Andrew almost, only to be let down. Finally, when he didn’t think he could do this anymore without blacking out, Fletcher bent the leg on the inside of the sofa up, the other stretched out straight. He pressed his lips against his thigh, gently at first, and then bit down just enough to surpass pleasurable pain.  Andrew’s eyes opened again and he looked down at him, heart racing in his chest, lightheadedness clouding his vision. Fletcher sped up his hand and didn’t stop, holding him just a bit tighter, looking up at Andrew’s face as he brought him to the edge and past it. 

Andrew came with a cry, body shaking and chest rising and falling faster than should be possible.  His hands strained against the handcuffs that he had somehow forgotten about but was now painfully aware of.  

Before he had time to properly bask in the afterglow of such an intense orgasm, he found himself pulled up and careened to the floor, landing heavily on his knees with a suppressed grunt of pain. Fletcher undid his own pants then and held Andrew’s chin in his hands. He needed no more instruction to open his mouth. Things didn’t go at his pace for this part of the evening either. Fletcher pushed into his mouth, holding him then by his hair.  Andrew took a moment to adjust, choking a few times before he got used to the rhythm and depth. His head swam as he kept his mouth open, letting himself be used this way, saliva building up on his lips over the course of those minutes. He tried to remember to breathe, but forgot himself for a long moment.  His senses blurred and dulled enough that he missed Fletcher’s orgasm other than the warmth that was left in his mouth and throat when he withdrew. 

The man did his pants back up as Andrew fell backward to lean against the sofa, exhausted from the events of the night.  After he took the cuffs off him, he handed him his coke and cleared his throat. “You can show yourself out.” He slurred, turning and retreating up the stairs once more without another word.  

* * *

 

Andrew showed up for rehearsal ten minutes early and sat down silently at the kit after noticing Fletcher’s office door was open and hearing him in there with the dean. 

“What fucking part of this are you not getting?”  He asked, clearly irritated, as usual. “I. Will. Not. Be. In. Town.”  

The dean sighed.  “We need someone, Terence.  Kramer is having surgery that day, Miranda has her niece's baptism, and-”

“And I am just as unavailable as everyone else.”  Fletcher butted back in. “Not to mention my being the absolute worst person for the job.”  

Andrew sat quietly, having stopped even unpacking his music in order to listen in, voyeur he was.  

“You’re not the  _ worst  _ person to-”

“I am.”  The man objected.  “I am 100% the worst person to show a bunch of snot nosed high schoolers around.”  

“Prospective students.”  She corrected. 

“Infants.”  He spat back.  

She huffed.  “Well...where are you going to be?”  She asked, trying to find a way to make it work the way she wanted it to.  “Maybe you could stay long enough to do it before you leave.”

He laughed in response.  “No, I fucking can’t. It’s none of your goddamn business where I’m going, and maybe-” He paused and Andrew nearly scoffed, imagining the condescending smirk that went along with the tone of voice.  “You should reschedule.” 

“We can’t reschedule.  This orientation has been on the calendar for a year.  All of them have already signed up and rsvp'd.”

“Then you’ve had plenty of time to find-”

“But now we-” 

“Why can’t you just do it yourself?”  He demanded. 

“Someone has to sit at the front and greet them as they arrive.”  She insisted. Both of them were growing more and more frustrated with one another by the moment.  “If one of them comes in late, they won’t know where to go.” 

Fletcher scoffed.  “Good. They shouldn’t come at all if they can’t be on time.” 

“Terence, I-” 

Andrew stuck his head around the corner, knocking gently on the open door.  The dean stopped mid-sentence and looked up at him, and Fletcher eyed him inquisitively.  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I...I showed up early and I couldn’t help but overhear and um...”  He shrugged. “I’m going to be in town that day. I don’t mind helping out if it will make things easier.”  

Fletcher grinned smugly, forgetting his anger at Andrew in order to take advantage of this opportunity to embarrass and upset the dean.  “There you go!” He gestured to him. “Problem solved! Andrew here can corral the cattle, and you can herd them!"

She looked between Andrew and Fletcher multiple times before sighing in resignation.  “Okay, fine. Andrew, can you be at my office at three on Sunday to go over what I need you to do before the students start arriving?”

He nodded.  “Yeah that’s fine.”  

“Okay.”  She nodded too, then looked to Fletcher once more.  “It really shouldn’t have to be a student doing this.” She said tightly.  

Fletcher hummed and sat back, folding his hands over his chest.  “Then you  _ really  _ should have planned ahead.”  

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room.  Andrew was left standing there. “I...um...” He laughed awkwardly.  “I mean, hopefully that helps you out a little.” He said, trying to catch his eye.

Fletcher’s smile was gone as soon as it had come.  He stood and spoke without sparing him a glance. “She couldn’t have insisted I do it when she didn’t ask me in advance and it’s on a Sunday.  I wasn’t going to have to do a thing regardless. You only saved her ass.” He walked out of the office and into the band room as students started coming in, and Andrew returned to his seat, kicking himself over yet another failure to make amends.  

* * *

 

One brisk November evening after rehearsal, Andrew was walking home.  It was dark, clouds covering the sky completely leaving him with only the sparse light from the streetlamps to walk by.  Fletcher had handed out a sight-reading piece that day and had each player play through it individually. Andrew had done so flawlessly, not that he got any level of praise for that.  Connolly on the other hand had fucked up the syncopation within the first ten measures, shooting Andrew a glare when he snorted, and then getting off tempo because of his being distracted.  

Andrew looked up, startled when he heard his name called from down the street.  In the dark and hazy low light of the evening, he didn’t immediately recognize who it was.  He tugged the single headphone out of his ear as he saw him approach. Oh. Connolly himself. “What do you want?”  

Connolly walked all the way up to him, into his space, backed him up against the streetlight.  “What is it with you, man? Why do you have to be such a dick all the time?” 

“What are you talking about?”  Andrew asked, stepping forward so that Connolly had to back up a bit.

Connolly huffed.  “In rehearsal, man.  You just...” He groaned in frustration, and  _ jeez, did he just stomp?   _ Like a petulant child who didn’t even know how to express his own anger?  “You go out of your way to show me up and make me look like an idiot!”

Andrew scoffed.  “You’re the one that weaseled your way onto core last semester.”  

“I was only on core for a few weeks!”  Connolly protested. “I’ve been turning your pages for months, man.  I finally get to play for the first time in forever and you pull this shit?  Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Andrew frowned.  “At least you’re not in Nassau band, you stupid fuck.”  

“At least in Nassau I got to play!”  Connolly got in his face again, leaned down towards him.  “You walk into rehearsal all high and fucking mighty, sit there like you’re God or something-” 

Andrew could feel his face heating up in anger.  Who the fuck was he to talk to him like this anyway?  What did he know? “Hey, fuck you! I work my ass off for my parts, man.”

“You think you’re the only one who works for this?”  Connolly demanded, laughing bitterly. “You know nobody in my family has gone to college?  Ever?” He put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him back until he hit the lamp post. “And I decided to go to music school, and I swore it wouldn’t be as disappointing as it sounded, but it fucking is.  Because I don’t play. My family goes to concerts to watch me turn your pages!” 

Andrew looked up at him, anger blurring the edge of his vision.  “Get the fuck out of my face.” He said under his breath. 

“Or what?”  Connolly spat back.  “What, you’re gonna hit me?  Go ahead, fucker. Hit me.” 

“Fuck off.”  He gritted out, trying to maintain composure.  

“Hit me!”  Connolly yelled back.  “You’re such a tough guy, then hit me already.  Prove you’re not full of shit, you goddamn loser!”  

Andrew drew back his hand without thinking and was surprised when his fist actually connected with his face.  Connolly stumbled backwards, and by all logic, he should have stopped. But he didn’t. A rush of adrenaline clouded his mind and his vision went just a little more hazy and he lunged forward, tackling him to the ground.  He hit him three, maybe four times in the face before realizing that he wasn’t struggling, he wasn’t fighting back, nothing. He didn’t look angry, and he didn’t look like he was in pain. 

Andrew took a moment to catch his breath, still on the ground, hovering over him, staring down in a mix of confusion and pity.  A little time passed, and then he got up. Why didn’t he fight back? Connolly was a big guy, obviously spent a lot of time lifting weights, wore tank tops to show off his muscles, and was the one who instigated the fight.  He’d dared him to hit him, told him to even. And then didn’t fight back in the slightest? Just laid there and took it? A few moments passed, and he decided he couldn’t just stand there and watch Ryan lay unmoving and unblinking on the ground.  He extended his hand to him. 

He looked at it, then briefly up at Andrew before grabbing it and letting himself be pulled up.

“Come inside.”  He said finally, his voice sounding harsh and grating against the unpleasant silence of the evening.  “I...I have a first aid kit.”

* * *

 

Ryan sat in his desk chair, asphalt scrape on his cheek and temple, black eye, and a bloody busted lip.  His expression was devoid of any discernible emotion as he stared vacantly at the floor. Andrew kicked his dirty laundry out of the way to get to the bottom drawer of his dresser where he kept the first aid kit his dad had given him when he moved in.  He dipped some gauze in water and kneeled in front of Ryan, who was still avoiding his eyes. He dabbed the excess blood from his face and lip before pouring some antiseptic on another piece of gauze, wincing at the hiss of pain Ryan let out as that made contact with his cheek.  He tried to meet his eyes the whole time, to offer some visual apology, but he refused to look at him. 

Once he had placed a bandage over his cheek, he pulled a frozen bag of peas out of the tiny little freezer compartment in his mini fridge.  He went to hold it to his eye but Ryan wordlessly snatched it away, pressing it against his own face. 

The moments dragged on.

“I’m sorry.”  He finally forced out past layers upon layers of self righteousness and misplaced pride.  “I really don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.” 

Ryan shrugged, eyes still down.  “I told you to hit me, didn’t I? I’m not surprised or upset that you did.”  

“I shouldn’t have kept going.”  Andrew protested. “I mean, you didn’t fight back.”  He kept trying to meet his eyes, sat back on his heels and looked up at him.  “Why? Like, why didn’t you fight back? I mean don’t you wanna like...” he choked out a bit of laughter. “Don’t you wanna kick my ass?”  

Ryan shook his head and looked at him finally.  “I don’t want to kick your ass.” He said sincerely.  “I don’t want to beat you at anything. I don’t...I don’t have to be the best, you know?  I just...I want to be  _ something. _ ”  

Andrew stared up at him for another few seconds, then looked away, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed.  What kind of person had he been? He’d fallen right into the flow of things. Before Fletcher, every person in his band had been a person.  Sure none of them had liked him very much, but they had been people, and he had tried to have a rapport with a lot of them. He even tried to make friends when he first came to Studio Band.  That’s when things started to change. Fletcher made it such a hostile environment that his bandmates became competition and ceased to be people. How had he fallen into that trap?

Ryan Connolly left that night, but not before Andrew could offer and pour him a drink.  They sat in each other’s company for a bit, drinking together, not talking. But Andrew had come to the realization that he’d been advancing towards for quite a while; he really had become an asshole.  

* * *

 

Andrew stood outside the band room door, glancing in at everyone already playing. Ryan sat at the kit.  He took a deep breath, steadying himself before walking in. 

Fletcher looked his way when the door opened, and cut the band off, turning towards him with his arms crossed.  “Glad you could join us, darling.” 

Andrew pursed his lips and nodded.  “Yeah, sorry. I was just...busy. Lost track of time, that’s all.”  

Fletcher lowered his eyebrows, looking incredibly distressed at the idea that Andrew had the gall to come in here and talk to him that way.  “You’re a half hour late, you know that don’t you?” 

Andrew offered up a phony wince.  “Yikes, yeah I didn’t mean to be so late.  But I am.” He shrugged. “I guess Connolly will have to play my part today, huh?”  

Ryan looked up sharply and stared at him, eyebrows raised in confusion.  

Fletcher stepped towards him.  “Are you kidding me with this shit?”  He asked, leaning closer to him. “Are you?  Really, I’m serious. You must be fucking with me to waltz in here this late and be this apathetic about it.”  

Andrew didn’t step back or retreat, didn’t lean away from him, didn’t look away.  He met his eyes and stood his ground. “I’m sorry, really. I’ll just...I’ll turn his pages for the day, huh?”  

When he walked back to the kit and sat next to Ryan, he stifled a grin when he saw that Ryan was doing the same.  Fletcher raised his hand to pick back up at measure 18, eyeing him throughout the whole rehearsal, both puzzled and frustrated.  Connolly glanced at Andrew over his shoulder, rolling his eyes when Andrew just smiled at him. But for once, the interaction was goodnatured.   

* * *

 

Tension ran high while they warmed up for the jazz festival at Carnegie.  

Andrew had continued to go over every Friday, and Fletcher kept kicking him out after they were done.  Gentle caresses were no more. It felt as though his cheek was perpetually stinging from how often he got slapped for being too mouthy, or too needy, or too annoying.  He never brought up the incident; it was like he’d never shown up late and mouthed off to him in front of everyone. The next rehearsal found him on the stool again, still core.  Outside his home, the man never interacted with Andrew anymore. He didn’t smile at him from the front of the room or stand in his office door way waiting to catch his gaze or invite him out with him.  He had to admit he missed the attention. Although he had acknowledged Fletcher as the reason for so many struggles he had, he was still a pretty substantial part of his life. He still spent days thinking of ways to impress him, nights dreaming about him, but he was giving him the cold shoulder constantly.  

Andrew couldn’t think of a single way to remedy the situation.  He’d apologized all he could, but Fletcher still insisted he wasn’t upset.  But he wouldn’t be like this if he wasn’t. Things had changed too much for him not to be upset.  Between offering to make dinner, taking all his watches to get polished and replacement batteries, restringing the viola in his basement, and cleaning up around the band room, he still hadn’t found something that had made Fletcher less upset with him.  Even taking the heat off of him with the dean hadn’t meant anything. 

So today his goal had been to just keep his head down, play everything right, and avoid conflict.  

“Listen up, cocksuckers.”  Fletcher called out, pointedly smirking in Andrew’s direction when he said it before scanning the room.  “Tonight could make or break you. Everyone who’s anyone in the New York jazz scene is here. Play particularly well, you get their attention.  Fuck something up? Same fucking thing.” The collective nervousness of every member of the band was palpable. Ryan just stood there, arms crossed, looking more annoyed than afraid.   “If you make a mistake in front of these people, that’s your career on the chopping block. They don’t forget, so you’d better hope you’ve practiced, for your sake.” 

A stagehand appeared at the door, and they followed him from the practice room to the stage door. 

Fletcher had another stagehand put his jacket on him, eyeing Andrew up as he walked onto the stage. 

A round of applause erupted as Fletcher made his way onto the stage.  Andrew was preoccupied with getting his music organized and wiping the sweat off his palms.  When he looked up and around, as Fletcher was making his introduction, he noticed the other players looking in their folders in confusion, then around at each other the same way.  

He glanced at Ryan.  “What’s going on?” He whispered.  

Ryan shrugged.  “I have no idea.”  He leaned over a bit in his chair, craning his neck to see the trumpet players’ stands.  “Oh Christ...” He sat back down and looked at Andrew with wide eyes. “Do...do you have the new tune?”  

Andrew’s heart started racing more than it already was.  “What...what new tune?” He rifled through his music and only found their setlist.  

“I don’t know,”  Ryan flipped through his folder.  “I don’t have it either!” He swallowed nervously.  “They’ve all got sheets for a piece we don’t have. It’s-” 

“A new piece,” Fletcher announced.  “By Tim Simonec called  _ Upswingin’ _ .”  he turned around, giving Andrew a smirk, then raising his hand.  The rest of the band was at the ready, despite their confusion. Andrew cast one more panicked look at Ryan, who looked almost as distressed as he felt, before Fletcher counted them off and gave the downbeat.  

Sure, they were all sight-reading, but he didn’t even have anything to sight-read.  He tried to pick up the beat but every time he thought he’d gotten the time signature, it changed.  Oh fuck.  _ Fuck.   _ No.  There was no way Fletcher could have possibly been upset enough to fuck his whole career over like this.

The bassist and pianist were eyeing him in irritation, undoubtedly thinking that him messing up made them look bad, and having no clue that he didn’t have the chart. 

“What’s the time signature?”  He whispered to Connolly, desperation in his voice, trying not to be too loud and still trying to play along.  He was failing, miserably. 

Connolly looked at the bassist’s music and chewed his lip worriedly.  “It...it changes, man. It’s...7/8 for a while, and then...3/4? There’s a bunch of different ones.”  He whispered back. His eyes turned back to Fletcher, who just stared him down with a lifted eyebrow, watching him struggle. 

The song ended abruptly, leaving him playing nonsense for an additional bar, all alone, sticking out like a sore thumb.  

There was hesitation from the audience, who was obviously confused and taken aback by the clear confusion from the rhythm section.  Fletcher walked back towards him and smiled down at him smugly. “I guess maybe you don’t have it.” 

Andrew felt like he was going to vomit.  He looked out into the crowd, eyes landing on his dad, who got up and was rushing out, to the stage door like he already knew Andrew was going to have an absolute meltdown.  His face felt hot from his embarrassment, and as Fletcher moved back to the front of the stage to apologize for the percussion, he stood and rushed off the stage, leaving Connolly and everyone else to watch him run.  

His dad met him at the stage door and he fell right into his arms, eyes pressed tightly shut, mortified and furious.  He hadn’t done anything. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be sabotaged like this. 

“Let’s go home, pal.”  His dad insisted, patting his shoulder.  

Andrew looked up and was faced with all his biggest fears, standing right in front of him.  He loved his dad, but it was hard to respect him. What if he lost his passion and never played the drums again, just like his dad stopped writing?  What if he became that complacent, accepted everything at face value, lived with the fact that there were some things he couldn’t change, when in reality some of those things, he could?  He backed away from him, swallowed, and made his decision. He wasn’t going to get discouraged. He refused to be that guy, the guy he’d been raised to be, maybe, but he wasn’t going to do it. 

“What are you doing?  Let’s go home.” His dad looked surprised, unsettled as he walked back out onstage.

Ryan was sitting on the stool and Fletcher turned back towards them from the audience as Andrew walked out.  

“I’m going to stay.”  He said to Ryan with a nod.  

Fletcher gave Connolly a look, trying to keep him in place, daring him to get up and give his seat to Andrew.  Connolly looked between the two of them for a moment, then stood, stepping aside and sitting back down in the chair, leaving the stool open for Andrew.  

Andrew sat down, took his sticks back out, and looked Fletcher in the eye.  

Fletcher lifted an eyebrow, then turned back to the crowd.  “Um...now we’re going to slow things down a little, starting with-” 

Andrew loudly interrupted, and Fletcher startled turning around and glaring at him.  Regardless of how angry he looked, there was no chance he was going to yield. Not this time.  Fletcher glanced between him and Connolly, who was staring at Andrew with just as much shock as anyone.  

“I’ll count you in!”  He shouted over his shoulder at the bassist, who nodded, although he really looked like he could wet his pants.  “Okay, three, four!”

He joined in.  Then so did Dorian on keys.  Fletcher looked around as every member of the band raised their instruments, at the ready.   _ Oh please,  _ he had no choice but to let it happen.  He raised his hand to conduct, to try and grasp some semblance of control here when he’d lost all of it.  The stage lights never felt so hot. Fletcher made his way back to him, scowl plastered on his face, and Andrew stared him down the whole way, unwavering drive propelling him on. “I will gouge out your motherfucking eyes.”  

He hit the cymbal and Fletcher moved back to avoid being hit by it.  

The song went on.  Solos were played. Connolly’s shock was replaced with a smile, and he didn’t take his eyes off Andrew the whole time he played, watching  _ someone  _ do this outrageous thing that nobody else even dreamed of doing.  As time went on, Fletcher walking around the stage, loosely conducting, something changed.  Andrew didn’t drop tempo. He didn’t lose confidence. He didn’t look at the music once. From this far away, it was hard to tell, but it looked like that was almost, maybe, possibly a smile on Fletcher’s face. 

The song drew to an end, but he wasn’t done; he couldn’t be done yet.  Fletcher was already impressed and everyone in the crowd was on the edge of their seats, but it wasn’t enough.  He was filled with adrenaline, and the more he played, the better it felt. It was a performance high like he had never experienced in his entire life.  His hands refused to stop moving, and he refused to stop playing. He went on, improvising a solo, playing with no constraint, unbridled, on and on. 

He blinked and when he looked up, Fletcher stood in front of him once more.  “Andrew, what are you doing, man?” He asked, eyes wide.

“I’ll cue you!”  He answered. 

Fletcher nodded slowly, face twitching in anticipation as he stepped back, hand up, keeping the band at the ready.  

Andrew lost himself, lost control of the solo, let it run.  No longer did he feel his head throb with exertion, hear his heart beat in his ears, feel each ragged breath as he drew it in, no.  He was numb to pain and blind to sensation. The solo grew in speed and dynamic and technicality. The swelling of pride and endorphins engulfed him.  He hadn’t even noticed that his cymbal had gotten knocked off balance until he saw Fletcher fixing it in his peripheral. He looked at him for a moment and blinked, still playing at the speed of light.  

Fletcher held up his hand, slowly moving it down.   _ Calm down. Slow down. Ease up.   _ Andrew let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and complied.  He searched his mind for anything he knew that he could control and found only rudiments in the crowded haze of his head.  Before he’d even thought it, he was playing paradiddles on the snare. Fletcher nodded his approval, continuing to talk him down, motioning him to slow down.  Andrew gradually did so, a slow and steady rallentando. Down, and down, and down, and Fletcher was smiling. Andrew came to the realization then that this had been his plan.  It had all been an act: screw him over, act upset when he came back out, force him to go completely over the edge to win back his approval, and effectively winning the approval of hundreds of people who mattered.

He wasn’t angry.  He thought for a brief moment that maybe he should be, but he wasn’t.  Suddenly the motion changed. Fletcher raised his hand up and Andrew felt so awakened, so enthusiastic that it was a wonder he didn’t jump right of his stool.  The rest of the stage had blurred into nothing. Ryan was no longer visible, nor was Dorian, or any of the other players at all. The audience was absent. As important as they were, this wasn’t about them.  He kept his eyes trained on Fletcher’s as he raised the tempo with as much assurance and confidence as he’d lowered it. 290. 300. 330. 350. 390. 400. It climbed and climbed and he reached a speed he had never played before in his life, spurred on by the excited light in Fletcher’s eyes.  

Fletcher backed away to his usual spot on the stage, hand raised to lead the band.  Andrew played a final riff, heart in his throat, drenched in sweat, tingling with exuberance. Then once more, he looked to Fletcher.  Across the stage, their eyes met in silence, but Andrew wasn’t interested in his eyes in this moment. His own flickered down to his lips just as the man mouthed the words:  _ good job.   _

The applause was deafening, not that Andrew could currently hear any of it past the blood pounding in his ears.  

The band walked offstage, some of them smiling at Andrew, some of them scowling at him; ever the competition in this band.  He stood and gathered his things, and Ryan patted his shoulder, mouth slightly ajar, aghast and impressed. He nodded at him, and Andrew smiled his thanks.  But nobody else’s opinion of the evening really mattered. Fletcher lead them offstage like always and they filed back into the practice room to put their instruments away, and Andrew approached the door, taking up the rear.  Only when he looked in, he didn’t see Fletcher, the one person he was looking for.

Then he felt someone grab his sleeve and pull him away from the doorway.  He turned around and smiled again when he saw him. “I-” 

“I’m going to stop you right there.”  Fletcher said, leaning against the wall, face mere inches from Andrew’s.  “That was damn impressive.” 

Andrew’s flush from the performance only grew now in flattery.  “Thank you.” He managed to get out in a whisper. 

The man reached out and patted his shoulder, letting his hand run up and down his arm.  “I mean, that was really something. You can expect to get a lot offers tonight.” 

His brow furrowed.  “Offers? Tonight? What do you mean tonight?”  

“Well you’re coming to the reception with me, right?”  

Things were back to normal.  Thank fucking God. “Of course I’m going to the reception with you.” 


	13. Thirteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acquaintances. Assumptions. Arguments.  
> The relationship between Andrew and his father grows more strained.  
> The one between him and Fletcher grows closer. Closer? Can that be right? Strangely enough. 
> 
> Best of luck with this jam packed chapter.

The chatter in the room at this reception was much more jovial than it had been at the gala.  The entrance foyer to Carnegie Hall already glowed and shimmered beauty, but with the tables covered in pearlescent white tablecloths, the attire of so many very well dressed music professionals, and the reflective glass of so many drinks on the bar, it was all the more enchanting.  He walked in with Fletcher leading him, hand on his lower back. All his peers had packed up their instruments and gone home; apparently the reception wasn’t open invitation.

“Listen,” Fletcher said as they walked towards the bar.  “People are bound to come at you today with checkbooks and business cards.”

Andrew felt a smile spread across his face as he allowed himself to fantasize about it. Imagine, a director of a world renowned jazz band approaching him at the reception, offering him a spot, or even just an audition.  He was getting so close to the dream he’d been dreaming since childhood that he practically considered it achieved. The contrast his current mood displayed to how he felt this morning was drastic.

Andrew snapped back to reality, clearing his throat and looking his way.  “I’m sorry, I must have zoned out.”  

Fletcher blinked and shook his head incredulously.  “You can’t afford to zone out, Neiman.  Don’t cost yourself this attention because you can’t stay fucking focused.  Pop an adderall or vyvanse or methamphetamine for all I care. Concentrate.”

Andrew nodded. “Okay, yeah.  I will. Sorry.”

“Anyway,” He said, sipping a whiskey and handing Andrew a sparkling wine of some sort.  “Don’t accept anything. Answer neutrally. Tell them you’re honored and you’ll have to get back to them at a later time.  This is too important a decision for your stupid ass to just give a gut response.”

“Dr. Fletcher, that’s an outstanding band you’ve got,” said a man in his who couldn’t have been older than thirty five as they were walking away from the bar.  

Fletcher turned to him and smiled slightly.  “Noel, hey, how’ve you been?” He clasped his shoulder.

“Pretty good, man.”  He patted his side, hand lingering there for a long moment and Andrew couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows at how familiar and intimate the interaction was.  “So introduce me to young Buddy Rich here, would ya?” And then all he could do was beam at the compliment, though he kept his eyes down bashfully.  

Fletcher nodded and stepped back so they could shake hands.  “Noel, this is Andrew Neiman.  Second year at Shaffer.”  He met Andrew’s eyes. “Andrew, Noel is a director with the School of Jazz at the New School.  He was a student of mine, way back when.”

Andrew’s stomach still fluttered every time Fletcher called him by his first name.  “Nice to meet you.” He gripped Noel’s hand firmly.

“Way back when, huh?  You say that like I’m ancient.”  He laughed, then finally looked away from Fletcher and at Andrew.  “Some solo you played tonight, kid.” Noel said with a smile.  “There’s a lot of buzz going on in this room about you tonight.”  

Just as Andrew was about to respond, someone else appeared by his side and stuck their hand out.  “Way to steal the show tonight, buddy.” He said as Andrew shook his hand. “I’d love to chat with you sometime about your plans.  I’m with Blue Note and we’re always looking for prospects.”

“Another _great_ , rising out of Terence Fletcher’s band.”  Came another voice, a woman he vaguely recognized who approached from the other side of him.  She stood next to Fletcher now, between him and Andrew.

Fletcher cleared his throat and glanced at her.  “Don’t feed his ego.” He answered. “And I don’t know if I’d say I’ve had a “great” in a good long while.”  

She nodded with a hum, taking a sip of her red wine.  “Who would you say was your last one, hm?” She lifted an eyebrow, mouth hidden behind her glass as she spoke.  “Sean Casey?” The rest of the present company got quickly quiet, particularly Noel, everyone averting their eyes in favor of examining what must have been very interesting floor tiles.  “I wonder what the common factor is.”

Fletcher pursed his lips and nodded, looking otherwise unphased by the veiled criticism.  “Andrew, this is Marie Faust,” he gritted out without looking away from her. “Events coordinator and director at Birdland.”  

Andrew reached out to shake her hand and she looked him in the eyes, expression indiscernible, for a very long time.  However, she made no move to shake his hand.

The night passed thusly, with many introductions.  People approached him all evening with compliments.  They approached Fletcher just as much, to ask about him and his plans.  Fletcher made sure to answer each one by assuring them that Andrew was nowhere near at the top of his game yet, and there was still plenty for him to learn.  

He didn’t see any more of Marie Faust.  So many introductions had been made that he began to lose track.  Like Fletcher said, he received offers: one to start as a core drummer in the new season, another to come in as an alternate in August, and one to join core with a touring band immediately.  He let each one feed his ego, then told them one by one how much he appreciated it and was honored, but would have to get back to them at a later time.

One very poignant introduction would never slip his mind.  While Fletcher was refilling his drink, he felt another hand on his shoulder.  

“Andrew Neiman, right?”  

He turned around and his breath caught in his throat.  After a moment of being starstruck, he shook his hand more enthusiastically than he had ever shaken a hand in his  
life.  “Mr. Marsalis, I...it’s, um...it’s nice to meet you.”  He spluttered. While Wynton Marsalis wasn’t the only influential person in the room tonight by far, he had been one of the reasons Andrew first decided to focus on Jazz.  The videos all those substitute teachers would show when the director was out, back in middle school, featuring Wynton Marsalis and his family had fine-tuned his interests and inspiration, shaping his path so much.  His being the   
artistic director at Lincoln Center made him all the more monumental.  

The man just smiled warmly and patted his shoulder.  “Quite the solo.” He answered. “I guess Fletcher has told you to expect some attention tonight, hm?”

Andrew shrugged, feeling humbled even after such a performance, now in the presence of a man whom he’d idolized since childhood.  “He said I might get some offers, but I’m not really expecting anything.”

Marsalis tilted his head.  “I know you’ve already gotten a couple offers.  Not good enough ones I’m guessing?”

“I mean, they’re fine.”  He answered. “Varied. Plenty of options.”

“So what you meant there was that you weren’t expecting anything from _me._ ”

Andrew worried his lip between his teeth and looked down at the floor.  “Um…yeah, I guess. Like, I don’t want you to think I expect anything. It’s an honor just to hear you compliment my solo.”

“I do want to make you an offer.”  He answered. “Don’t sell yourself short, man.  Confidence is important in this line of work, and the only way you get anywhere is telling people exactly how good you are.  Now, are you a great drummer?”

Andrew met his eyes and swallowed, then glanced over at Fletcher, who was idly conversing with some people on the opposite end of the room, though he was secretly keeping one eye on Andrew the whole time.

“Hey,” Marsalis called his attention back to him gently.  “I’m not Fletcher, okay? I’m not setting you up. Now, I believe you’re a great drummer.  Are you?”

His chest swelled with pride at hearing the words, and he felt compelled to say them.  “I am. Yeah, I’m…I’m a great drummer.” Had it been Fletcher asking, he could expect a sabotage or slap in the face.

From Wynton Marsalis, he got a smile.  “Good. Now hear me out,” He went on to detail just how firmly he believed in the power of education, and that it was important to him to encourage as many students as possible to finish their schooling.  “That’s always been the message I’ve tried to push.”

“Yeah, of course.  I know that. I agree.”  Andrew recalled so many of the documentaries and videos conveying that back in middle school.

“So you understand that I don’t want to pull you out of Shaffer.”  He responded. When Andrew nodded, he continued. “I want you to be a part of my band.  I want you to start as an alternate, and I’m very confident, as you should be, that you could become my core drummer within a year.”

Andrew smiled ear to ear.  “Well that’s an extremely generous offer. I’m…that’s like my dream, like exactly.”

“Hold it, man, hear me out.”  He paused and shifted his weight.  Andrew did the same. “I want you to be in the band, but I want you to finish at Shaffer. I’m offering you the spot at the beginning of the season the year you graduate.”

The excitement faded, just a touch.  He’d have to wait two and a half years before even being an alternate.  The other options were much quicker to start, but this was Wynton Marsalis.  He pursed his lips and glanced back at Fletcher. “Thank you. I’ll…I’ll have to get back to you.” He took a business card and a handshake and made his way back over to Fletcher.

The evening was over as quickly as it had begun, although the air had changed.  Fletcher kept getting him more drinks, and while he had been obsessively thinking about the offers he’d gotten, he quickly let himself think exclusively about going home with Fletcher that night, and whatever the reason was that he kept giving him a side glance and a smile.

* * *

Andrew sat at his usual spot in his uncle Frank and aunt Emma’s living room, the armchair in the furthest corner of the space.  The room was covered in sports memorabilia, like the hall of fame had vomited all over the walls and surfaces. Signed pictures, framed jerseys, balls and pucks and mitts in glass boxes on oak pedestals overwhelmed the single photograph of Travis and Dustin in a small frame, barely visible by the sofa and behind a cardboard cutout of Frank Gifford.  

The house was filling with the smells and sounds of the holidays.  Turkey was in the oven, mashed potatoes on the stove-top, and bread rolls rising in a pan on the counter.  His uncle Frank was loudly reprimanding his father for allowing him to go to school with no sports team. “What the hell am I supposed to talk to the kid about?  How can there not be a team for me to cheer for?”

“It’s music, Frankie, it’s...there’s concerts.”  Jim tried to explain, offering _band_ in place of _team_ but Frank had already moved on to throwing the football back and forth in the dining room with Travis.  Their basset hound, Lombardi, was barking and pacing, anxious amidst all the commotion that he should have been used to at this point.

His dad sighed and walked over, hands in the pockets of the battered, worn in, faded blue jeans he always wore to family functions.  “Another Hanukkah, huh?” He chuckled and sat down.

Andrew shrugged, chin cradled in his hand and spiked cup of apple cider in the other.  “Another Hanukkah.” He agreed, doubting that they meant the same thing by it.

“So how’s the band been?  Any news?” He questioned, playing the age old game of _catch up_ they’d been playing once every couple months since Andrew had moved out.  It was the way he tried to make sure Andrew still felt cared about, but it felt more like a necessary bother.  

He shrugged again, still sipping his drink.  “It’s fine.” He kept his responses short as a rule, because he had a suspicion that his dad didn’t actually give a shit.  “Busy all the time with practicing and stuff.”

He nodded, settling back into the sofa cushions and turning his waning attention to the game on the television.  

“Write anything lately?”  

“Hm?”  He glanced over at him before letting his eyes dart away again avoidantly.  “Oh, you know. Haven’t finished anything for a while.”

Andrew nodded and sat the now empty mug down on the coffee table.  “Well you used to say someday when you had the savings you’d take a year off teaching and focus on writing.  Why don’t you do that next year?”

Jim didn’t look at him as he shrugged, eating a handful of chips from a bowl on the table.  “I don’t know. Maybe.” He nodded, seeming to be considering the idea. “Maybe I will do that.  That’s a good idea.” But like nearly everything else, he knew his dad probably wouldn’t ever follow through.

He hummed and sat back, not looking away when his dad briefly looked his way to see the judgmental look in his eyes.

When dinner was served, Andrew quickly downed the remaining rum from his flask in the privacy of the half bath on the ground floor and grabbed a beer to have with his meal.  He’d need it if he was going to get through an hour of hearing Frank gloat about his sons’ achievements and watch his father nod his agreement, totally sleeping on his own successes.

He ate what he could manage and then sat there, leaning on his elbows and staring into space, trying to look towards whoever was speaking in order to appear present.  Truth of the matter was that he couldn’t focus on a damn thing anyone was saying. None of it was important and almost all of it was veiled criticism of him and his dad, compared to them, so it wasn’t really worth his attention anyway.

Frank went to get some jersey to show everyone and aunt Emma went to get dessert from the kitchen.  Travis and Dustin were discussing some date that one of them had gone on, and Andrew was paying so little attention that he didn’t know which one.  A few moments passed before he glanced over and noticed his dad staring at him, a blend of concern and curiosity painted across his face.

“What?”  He asked.

His dad looked away and shrugged.  “You’re just being really quiet today, that’s all.  More than usual.” He sipped his glass of wine. “Maybe this is just how you are when you drink.  I’ve never seen you drink this much.”

Andrew glanced at his beer and scoffed, though he recognized that any words he did say were coming out slurred and slow.  “One beer? It’s eight percent alcohol.”

His dad shook his head, eyebrows knitting together as he took offense.  “I’m not an idiot, pal. You don’t think I could smell the rum from your cider?  Or the bourbon on your breath when you got in the car this morning?” He rolled his eyes, and it was as much boldness as Andrew had ever seen him display.  “Listen, son. One alcoholic to another? You’re obvious.”

Andrew started and blinked, watching the way he avoided his eyes now. “You’ve...you’ve never admitted that before.”  He said. “Not to me anyway.”

“Never had a reason to until now.”  He answered, fiddling with the fraying edge of the tablecloth as he spoke.  “You gotta be careful with this, okay? It grabs onto you out of nowhere and I don’t want you to go through the same thing I’ve gone through.”

After glancing at his cousins to be sure they weren’t listening in, he sighed.  “I am being careful, dad. Really. I don’t...I don’t drink that often. I know how to control it.”  

The doubtful expression on Jim’s face said it all.  

“Okay!”  aunt Emma reentered the room.  “Who wants rugelach and who wants babka?”

Frank yelled down from upstairs.  “Em, where the hell did you put my damn jersey?”

Happy Hanukkah indeed.      

* * *

“So, are you ever going to tell me about the offers you got the other night at the reception?”  Fletcher asked as their entrees were brought to the table and the appetizer plates had been taken away.  Another swanky, sophisticated, Brooklyn dive.

Andrew cleared his throat.  “Oh, yeah. Sorry, I guess we got…sidetracked that night.”  He looked down at his plate and inhaled deeply. “You know I’ve never tilapia before?  Ordered this on a whim.” He cut into it, looking away from Fletcher. He’d mulling over his options for a couple weeks.  His holiday vacation had been consumed by it. It was only sensible to assume Fletcher’s two cents would make it all the more difficult to decide.

But Fletcher saw through him as easily as his empty glass.  “Stop stalling and talk.” He commanded, leaning back and crossing his arms, not touching his food.

Andrew sighed and sat back as well after taking a bit of his own food.  “Okay. Yeah.” He listed off the initial three offers he got, detailing what they entailed and the group and director of each. “And Marsalis kind of offered me a spot.”

Fletcher raised an eyebrow.  “What do you mean _kind of_ offered you a spot?”

He shrugged and took a swallow of his wine.  “Well, he said he wants to see me finish my education at Shaffer first, so he doesn’t want to bring me on until after I graduate.”

“Well that’s the clear choice.  That’s the one you were looking for.”  He started eating, so assured that there was no discussion to be had, considering the decision made.

“I…I don’t know.”  Andrew responded nervously.  His nervousness only grew when Fletcher looked up and met his eyes, judgment and confusion in his own.  “It’s just…I don’t graduate for two and a half years. That’s a long time to wait, you know?”

“It’s Lincoln Center, Andrew.”  Fletcher deadpanned, having abruptly stopped eating, fork still in hand.  “What about that isn’t exactly your dream? You were going to finish at Shaffer before you played that solo, so why not do it now?”

Andrew was apprehensive to argue, but just intoxicated enough to ignore Fletcher’s angry tone of voice.  “I have options now, Fletcher.” He barely noticed the clenching of the man’s hand around his fork when Andrew said his name now, while defying him.  “The Brooklyn one only wants me as an alternate. But the band in Philly wants me as a core member starting in August. And the touring band wants me immediately.  That…that might be cool, you know? To tour the country? I’ve never been off the east coast.”

Fletcher stared him down, then shook his head.  “Are you fucking stupid? Jazz at Lincoln Center is a goddamn legend.  You’ll never get a better offer.”

After downing the rest of his glass of wine, he poured another, drinking half of it before responding.  “Or,” he said, stuttering slightly to stifle a hiccup. “I could go ahead and start my career now, build a foundation, and start making money, then come to Marsalis later and ask if I can audition.”

“Why are you in such a hurry to leave Shaffer?”  Fletcher demanded, voice raised enough for people to glance their way.

Andrew stared him down now, curious neutrality replacing his timid expression.  “Hm.” He looked him up and down, judgement in his own eyes for a change. “You mean leave _you._ ”

Fletcher blinked, disbelieving as he sat forward.  “I’m sorry, what bullshit did you just spew?”

“It’s not bullshit, I’m right.”  He answered, more to himself than to him.  “You’re afraid if I leave Shaffer or have any real success, I won’t stick around.  You’re afraid I’ll leave _you._ ”

He scoffed.  “You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”

Andrew nodded.  “Yeah.”

“I need you, right?  I’m stifling you so that you’ll stay?”

Andrew hesitated, not sure if he’d really phrase it just that way, but he hesitated a touch too long.

“Okay.”  Fletcher stood, fork clinking loudly against his plate as he dropped it onto the table.  “That’s fine. You want to see? You want to see just how much I need you?” He turned and walked away.  Andrew watched him go, heart in his stomach, senselessly hoping that he would turn left towards the bathroom.  But of course not. The maitre’d eyed him confusedly as he walked out of the restaurant, leaving Andrew to pick up the check and figure out where he actually was, so he could find the subway station when he left.

“Is everything okay?”

Andrew looked up and met the concerned eyes of their timid young waiter, who had seemed to know Fletcher, as most people in the restaurants and clubs they went to did.  He sighed and forced a nod. “Yeah, it’s fine. I um…I’m fine. I’ll just take the check whenever you get a chance.” He said, knowing it would be like $200 or something insane that he definitely couldn’t afford.

The waiter cleared his throat and glanced around the restaurant warily.  “Is…is he coming back?”

Andrew shook his head, only looking up when the guy sat down across from him.  “What are-“

“Don’t worry about the bill.”  He cut him off insistently. “I’ll just tell the chef that Terrence Fletcher walked out because he was dissatisfied with the meal.  She’ll agonize over it, probably write him a letter of apology or some shit. He’s like God around here.”

There was a certain kinship he now felt with this waiter, God knows why, and it encouraged him to smile at him.  “He’s like God everywhere.”

He nodded.  “I know. Ex-student.”

His eyes met the table.   _Oh, that’s why._ Same timid, broken expression as all his bandmates generally had after a bad rehearsal.  “Ah, so you get it.”

“Probably not the same way you do.”  The guy answered. When Andrew looked up sharply at him, he looked away and cleared his throat.  “I didn’t mean to be rude. Just…I was in Sean Casey’s year, if…if you know anything about that situation.

Andrew looked him over and tried to catch his eye.  “I don’t know nearly as much as I should about that.  What…what do you know?” His interest was piqued now.

But the head waiter was looking their way, and he had to rush off.  Andrew had to leave as well if the story of Fletcher being dissatisfied with the food was going to be believable.

So he walked down the street, eyes open for a subway station. He should probably just go back to his dorm for the night.  Once he was on the train, he sat, swiping through the pages of apps on his phone, opening the same ones over and over only to close them again.  Eventually, he got frustrated with his phone, or maybe with himself, and put it away.

The train car was mostly empty, aside from a miserable looking young guy, probably late twenties, wearing a suit and tie and obviously just now heading home from work at ten o’clock at night.  Andrew watched him fidget with his watch for a moment until he looked up and met his eyes, forcing him to look away.

There were only another ten minutes until his stop.  He watched the brick tunnel whiz by outside the window, so fast that the lines of the bricks were completely indecipherable.

Fletcher was wrong.  He just was. Andrew was only 20 years old.  If he started playing with pro-bands now, he would gain experience.  Other bands would want him more if he had more experience, including Lincoln Center.  Sure Wynton Marsalis was a big _stay in school_ proponent, but he’d still acknowledge experience as being valid.  He’d give him an audition, or an offer eventually. He might not respect him as much, but…

And he didn’t have to stop seeing Fletcher if he left Shaffer.  He’d see him less, but maybe that was a good thing. He could travel, see more of the country, play with a pro-band, and make a name for himself.  Sure, maybe Fletcher would be judgmental. Maybe he’d respect him less for taking the fast lane, trying to skip over the more trying years of his education, but it was in his best interest.  Wasn’t it? In the end, what was more important; achieving his success fast and advancing or…or respect?

But then again, if Marsalis didn’t respect him, would he even give him the time of day?  Andrew was just another drop in the bucket of aspiring young musicians. Why would he give him an audition after he’d done the opposite of what he had asked him to do? If Fletcher didn’t respect him, would he even want to keep seeing him?  And couldn’t he ruin his career with a snap of his fingers if he wanted to?

If neither of them respected him, how could he ever remember how to respect himself?

At some point, without him realizing, his vision had shifted.  He was no longer looking out the window, but at the window; his eyes were trained on his own reflection, almost challenging, still half lidded from intoxication, cheeks splotchy and red from the cold outside.  The train stopped, one stop away from his.

“Now arriving at Pennsylvania Station.  Transfer to…downtown and Brooklyn…C, E….1, 2 and…”  The automated recording playing over the speaker in each car faded in and out of his attention.  He glanced through the open doors, seeing the train headed downtown pull in across the platform.

* * *

 Fletcher heard his doorbell ring from the basement where he had hurriedly retreated to after having walked out of the restaurant.  The damn kid’s belligerence had infuriated him, more than it really should have. He could still feel how heated his face had gotten, how flushed he was, skin tingling with angry energy.  It hadn’t gone away by the time he had driven home, so he was doing cardio in hopes of tiring himself out enough to at least rest, if he wasn’t going to be able to sleep.

But apparently Andrew had the balls to want to argue about it some more.  There was really no other reason for him to show up here after that, and nobody else who would be knocking on his door at this or any other hour of the day.

He opened the door and lo and behold, he was right.  There he fucking was, looking just as goofy and sheepish as ever.  He pushed his way into the house rather than hesitating on the stoop.   _That_ was at least unusual.

“What, I didn’t embarrass you enough earlier?”  He asked, closing the door and crossing his arms, staring him down and waiting for some explanation.

Andrew hadn’t looked at him yet, toeing off his shoes and setting them neatly next to Fletcher’s by the door.  Finally he turned around and sighed. “You were right.”

Fletcher lifted an eyebrow.  Oh, so he didn’t come to argue.  He came to grovel. “I know that.  You don’t have to assure me of anything.”

The kid rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the floorboards.  “I’m…I came to say I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking and I got overly excited and I should have realized that you knew what you were talking about and respected the fact that you’ve been in this business forever.”

Fletcher nodded and stepped towards him slowly, arms still crossed.  “So you’re going to…what? Go with Marsalis’ offer?”

Andrew nodded too, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief at himself.  “Yes. Of course. Of course I am.” He shook his head and let out a breath of laughter.  “I mean, I don’t know what would even possess me to consider anything else when I’m guaranteed a spot with Lincoln Center in two and a half years.  That’s…you were right. It’s exactly my dream.”

And there and then did the tingling stop.  His anger faded and his restlessness with it.  Of course it was because Andrew finally saw sense and agreed with him.  He was right and that wasn’t contestable. That’s why he had been so upset.  Because Andrew was going to leave. _No._  Because Andrew was ignoring his expertise and making a stupid gut decision that would ultimately reflect poorly on both of them.  That was why. “And you drank too much.”

“And I drank too much.”  He repeated in agreement.  “I’m sorry.”

Fletcher inhaled slowly and then let it out.  “Good.” He said with a nod, then looked him up and down.  “So, how are you going to make it up to me?”

There was just something about that toothy grin.

* * *

 

Weeks passed, and then months.  The day came when it had become commonplace for Andrew to visit Fletcher on any day of the week.  It was spring semester, and his days passed with rehearsals, while evenings passed at Fletcher’s. Sex still happened once or twice a week, very rarely any more than that.  This meant they were spending most of the time they were together simply existing with one another. Andrew spent the night four times a week on average, and had brought over a copy of his family cookbook, insisting that if Fletcher was going to make him eat, they were going to eat decent food.  He cooked dinner some nights, made breakfast some mornings, and let Fletcher go on making microwavable meals and shakes the rest of the time. All of that said, Fletcher seemed to enjoy meals more when Andrew made something.

One night, following four consecutive nights that he had stayed with him, Andrew let his nerves get the best of him.  He turned to Fletcher, who was sitting at the kitchen table by the window while he washed the evenings dishes. “Do you want me to go home tonight?”  He asked, concerned that maybe he was overstepping or overstaying his welcome.

Fletcher just shrugged without looking up from his newspaper that he hadn’t read that morning because Andrew had taken too long in the shower and nearly made them late for rehearsal.  “Up to you. I don’t care. I don’t have any plans tonight.”

He paused for a moment, looking him over, but he still didn’t look up, seeming unphased both by the question as well as Andrew’s presence in the house.  He finished washing the dishes.

“Jeopardy is on tonight.  Ready to feel very bad about yourself?”

Andrew felt a small smile tugging at his lips and he leaned on the counter, drying his hands on a dish towel.  “I think you’ll find me a better competitor than you think.”

Fletcher finally looked up and tilted his head doubtfully.  “Oh, please.”

“You’re on.”

* * *

 

Andrew sat in bed, clad in boxers and sweat from a night of restless sleep.  The shower in the bathroom was on, and it had been for over thirty minutes. God, why did Fletcher take so long to get ready in the morning?

When his phone started to ring, he was startled.  The caller ID popped up and he groaned, not interested in forcing a conversation with his dad this early in the morning.  He turned the ringer off and tossed it aside, standing and walking to the bathroom door. “Are you almost done in there?” He called.

“What?” Fletcher yelled back over the noise of the shower and fan, unable to hear him.

Andrew rolled his eyes and opened the door, sticking his head in just slightly.  “I said are you almost done in here?” He lifted an eyebrow in surprise to find him not in the shower, but standing at the sink, towel wrapped around his waist.  The water was still running, and Fletcher looked particularly perturbed that Andrew had let himself in. “What are you doing?” He asked in amusement.

Fletcher huffed and dropped what he was holding into the open drawer beside him.  “Would you get the fuck out of here?”

“Are those tweezers?”  Andrew asked, stifling a huff of laughter.  “Are you shaping your eyebrows? That is hilarious.”

“I don’t see what’s funny about-“

He pointed at the running shower.  “You left the water going so I wouldn’t know that the reason you were taking so long was that you were doing your eyebrows!”  he let his smile grow, spoke through laughter. “You’re so vain, oh my god. I can’t believe it.”

“Hey!”  Fletcher objected loudly, scowl on his face that looked more entertained than he probably intended it to.  “I’m a sixty four year old gay man for God’s sake. I am entitled to care what I look like. You think I’m this put together without a little maintenance?”

Andrew opened the door a little more, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.  “No, of course not,” he shook his head. “But the fact that you tried to pretend you weren’t in here doing that is pretty hysterical.”

Fletcher stared him down for another long moment before shaking his head, going to turn off the shower.  “I was just trying to avoid this tedious little conversation.”

“You were embarrassed.”

“I was not.”

“You were-“

Fletcher huffed and turned to face him.  “Listen, nobody has spent the night in my home for thirty years.  You’ve stayed over four nights a week at least for a month.” He put his hands on his hips, more convincingly irritated now.  “I’ve lived in absolute privacy for longer than you’ve even been alive. It’s my instinct to try and maintain that.”

The tension grew once more and he almost regretted trying to have this easy, teasing sort of rapport with him.  “I’m sorry.” He answered finally. “I didn’t have to stay so often. I didn’t know you were uncomfortable with it.”

“No, I fucking invited you to stay here.”  Fletcher protested, seeming unbothered by the situation now.  “If I hadn’t been okay with it, I wouldn’t have let it happen.”  His hand hovered briefly over the tweezers, no sign of a glance towards Andrew before he picked them up and resumed.

Andrew washed his face in the adjoining sink beside him.

“What time is it?”  He asked, shouting out into the bedroom after Fletcher had gone to get dressed.

No response came.

“Fletcher?”

“You’re going to want to come check your phone.”  He responded, voice low.

Andrew’s heart sped up in nervousness when he was handed his phone.  Fletcher reached out and wiped toothpaste from the corner of his mouth as he read the compilation of texts.

        _Call me right now._

        _We need to talk about last night._

        _I know something is going on.  Call me._

        * _Five missed calls from Dad*_

“Shit.”  He glanced at Fletcher briefly before hitting the call button and bringing the phone to his ear.  The ringing was like an auditory manifestation of his anxiety, shrill and discomforting. It didn’t last long before his dad answered.

“Andrew?”

“Yeah, um…hey, dad.”  He forced out. “What’s up?  Is everything okay?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line and he began pacing the floor, nervousness growing with each passing second.  “Why don’t you tell me, Andrew?”

“Tell…”  He swallowed.  “Tell you what?”

His dad laughed that guarded and uncomfortable laugh that made him cringe; the same laugh he did whenever Andrew had asked questions about his mom that would never be answered, the laugh he did when he had told him he wanted to be a professional musician.  It was a touch more strained now. “Maybe start with where you were last night.”

Fletcher had gone downstairs to the kitchen.  Andrew could hear him start the coffee, like routine, but routine had been disrupted.  It didn’t feel as comfortable now. He hesitated. “Where was I last night? I was…I was home most of the day.”  He lied through his teeth, but he knew that his voice was shakier than was believable.

His dad sighed.  “Your uncle Frank called me this morning to say he was concerned about you.”

“Why?”  He paced the floor in front of the bed, trying to think of a reason Uncle Frank could have to be upset with him.  He hadn’t even spoken to the man in at least a month.

“He said Travis came home after a date last night and told him that he saw you at the same restaurant.”  His dad’s voice in dynamic. “With some older man who was groping you?”

Andrew’s heart was racing in his chest as he racked his brain for a believable way to deny or excuse this.  He came up blank, left spluttering and struggling on his end of the line.

His dad sighed and was silent for a long moment.  “It’s Fletcher, isn’t it? Your director?”

His heart sank with him as he dropped down to sit on the floor, back against the bedpost.  “It’s…it’s not as messed up as you think.” He breathed, knowing that in reality, of course it was.

“Are you home?”  His dad demanded.  “I’m coming over now.  We need to talk about this.”

“No, no, I’ll.”  He stood up still stuttering.  “I’ll come over. I’ll come to the house.”

Another lengthy pause.  “Because you aren’t in your dorm.”  When Andrew didn’t answer, his dad sighed.  “Right. Come right now.”

After he had gotten dressed, so ashamed of himself that he was in shock and functioning on autopilot, he walked downstairs.  Maybe Fletcher had tried to get his attention as he passed by the kitchen. Maybe he had even followed him to the door, asking if he was okay, or more likely, what the fuck was wrong with him.  He wouldn’t know. He made it to the subway station by sheer muscle memory. There wasn’t a sound in the whole of New York that made it past the blood pounding in his ears.

If his dad said hello when he walked in, that particular moment didn’t register in his mind. He somehow went from standing on the porch trying to force himself to breathe to sitting across from him at the dining room table.  The seconds passed. They didn’t look at each other, or rather, couldn’t look at each other.

“When did this start?”  His dad asked after a lifetime of awkward silence.

He stared at his hands as he wrung them in his lap.   “Last spring semester. March.”

His dad let out a long sigh.  “And you spend a lot of time with him?”

Andrew grimaced at the way he gritted out the words.  “Well there’s rehearsals, and—”

“Aside from rehearsals.”

He brought his hand to his face, chewing on his thumbnail, a habit which he had mostly kicked since moving out that seemed to resurface anytime his dad was upset with him.  “Yeah. Jazz clubs and concerts and restaurants. He takes me out.”

He barely registered his father nodding, his eyes down and the world a haze around his limited vision of the floor and his own shoes.  “So he makes you feel special. Pressures you into doing things. Tricks you?”

“No.”

“He used your career to make you feel like you had to?”  His father continued to insist that there was no chance he was doing this of his own volition.  “Told you that you could only be in the band and only have these luxuries if you—”

“No, dad,” he disagreed, although he recognized that there was of course an element of pressure in this.  “I’m willingly involved with him.”

They finally looked at one another and the discomfort was visibly written across their faces.  “He’s…he’s three time your age.” Jim said incredulously. “He’s over ten years older than me, your father. How is it that you’re okay with that?” He demanded. “And since…since when are you gay?”

Andrew put his hands over his face and tried to breathe, tried not to let tears build up in his eyes.  Sure he would’ve eventually come out anyway, but it was supposed to be by his timetable. It was supposed to be a choice, his choice, not something that was being forced out of him because Travis couldn’t mind his own goddamn business.  He made himself pull his hands away, look his father in the eyes, and regain his composure. “I’m bisexual I guess.” He said, following it with a noncommittal shrug, trying to play it off like it wasn’t such a big deal.

The fact that his dad’s eyes darted away as soon as he said it felt ten times worse than an actual slap in the face.

“I’m not going to be okay with this.”  Jim said after a pause.

Andrew swallowed.  “What?”

“Yeah, no.”  He shook his head.  “You either stop seeing him outside of the band, or you’re gonna have to be out of the band.”

Andrew recoiled and his remorse was replaced with anger.  “What do you mean? You can’t…I mean, you can’t make me drop out.”

“I can stop paying for it.”  Jim countered. “You may have a scholarship, but I pay for the other half of your tuition, and all of your living expenses.”

Andrew scoffed and looked away, unable to keep his eyes on his father in this moment.  “I could just get a job.”

“And then when would you practice?”

He set his jaw, anger growing and melding with both shame and bitterness.  “I can’t believe you would abandon me to screw up my career.” He managed to say softly.

Jim nodded and hummed.  “I can’t believe you’re still pretending that drumming will ever be a career.”

They met eyes once more and Andrew stood, walking out of the room, and then out of the house.  He stood on the porch and fumbled with his phone, calling Fletcher as he wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

“Hello?”

Andrew held the phone away from his face and sniffed, then brought it back to his ear.  He was considering asking him to come pick him up, but thought better of it when he felt the tears he didn’t know were falling streak down his cheeks.  “Hey, um…” He wiped his face again. “Hey, I’m sorry, but I’m going to be late for rehearsal.”

“You okay?  You rushed out of here this morning like somebody started a fire up your ass.”  Andrew could hear the ticking of a turn signal, the distant jazz from the radio, the horns of the drivers around him.  He was already on his way to Shaffer.

“It’s…”  He sighed.  “I’ll talk to you later.  I need to get to the subway station.”

"You at your dad’s?”  Fletcher asked.

“I said I’d talk to you about it later.”  He answered sharply.

There was a brief silence and then a scoff on the other end of the line.  “I was going to offer to come pick you up, dipshit.”

Andrew hesitated.  “I…no. I’m going to take the train.”

“So you can be late.”

“So that you don’t…”  He huffed and walked down off the porch and back down the street towards the subway.  “So that you don’t have to see me this upset.”

Fletcher hummed.  “So you’ll take the train.  What station was that?”

“Sutter Avenue, what’s the difference?” Andrew sighed back at him.

He was walking up to the station, and just as he was about to walk up the stairs, he heard wheels squealing and horns blaring.  He jumped and looked towards the street past the looks of disdain on the faces of all the disgruntled pedestrians and motorists to see Fletcher sitting calmly in his car, as though he hadn’t just disrupted like all of the traffic in Brooklyn searching for him.  Andrew couldn’t help but roll his eyes fondly as he wiped his eyes once more with the back of his hand and pocketed his cell phone.

Fletcher rolled down the passenger side window.  “Would you get in and stop being such a baby?”

* * *

 

He received no special treatment, no comfort, nothing.  Fletcher didn’t even go easy on him in rehearsal; quite the opposite even.  It seemed like he was being harder on him now than before, even hitting him in the back of the head with his music folder for a missed snare hit that not a single other person in the room noticed.  He clenched his jaw, playing it again when Fletcher demanded it.

Fletcher cut off again and got in his face, inches away, told him he was dragging.  A part of him felt like he was lying. He played it again at the same tempo while everyone else held their horns in their laps and looked away, idly inspected the keys of the piano, scratched at nonexistent bumps on their arms.

Fletcher pushed closer, locking eyes with him.  “Dragging.”

He played it faster.  

“Again.”

Andrew played it again.

“Faster.”

He picked up tempo.

“That is fucking pathetic.”  Fletcher yelled, straightening back up and crossing his arms, looking down at Andrew.  “Play it again. Give me more. Faster, you goddamn pansy.”

Andrew played the same measures over.  Again. Again. Six times of his own accord, not taking his eyes off Fletcher’s or waiting for any more instruction before playing them again.  He kept repeating, gaining speed with each run. He didn’t stop until he saw Fletcher smirk and nod. The man held a metronome up, a small electronic one. It was on silent, but the bar was moving back and forth and the screen displayed the tempo.

Fletcher switched it off.  “410. Not bad.” He turned around and went back to the front of the room.  “I want you up to 430 by next rehearsal.”

“The piece is set at 400.”

“But you can do better.”

Backhanded compliment it may have been, but even that single ounce of praise made his chest feel light with pride.

Rehearsal resumed.

He hung around after and followed Fletcher wordlessly into his office, closing the door behind him.  Fletcher sat down but Andrew paced the floor in front of the desk, too unnerved to crave the comfort of his usual seat.

Fletcher folded his hands over his stomach.  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or are you just going to keep walking around?”

“My dad found out.”  He blurted out, despite having intended to carefully and tactfully approach this.  “My older cousin was apparently at Lilia last night and saw you being handsy and…and…and now my dad knows.”

Fletcher nodded and inhaled through his nose, more visibly distressed than Andrew would have expected.  He had a thought that he might pretend it was no big deal. “So he’s upset, hm?” He asked.

“He’s freaking out.  He said I have to stop seeing you.”  Andrew finally sat down with a sigh.

“You’re a grown man, entitled to make your own decisions.  So, I—”

“He pays for my living expenses and half my tuition.  Everything my scholarship doesn’t cover.” Andrew interrupted, working through his options in his mind.  “I thought about getting a job, because he threatened to stop helping me out, but I wouldn’t have time to practice and wouldn’t even be able to work much because of rehearsals.”  He was growing more frantic by the second. “I always said I’d never take out loans, because my dad was still paying his off when he was forty something.” What had started as a simple conversation had spiraled into the beginnings of a breakdown.  He could see his chest moving in and out of his line of sight with his labored and nervous breathing. “So I think—” He broke off when he met Fletcher’s eyes, feeling the mortifying threat of tears in his own. He kept his head turned down to avoid him noticing.

Fletcher didn’t respond for a moment, tapping his fingers on the desk wordlessly.  “Okay, so what are you getting at?” He asked knowingly. “Spit it out. Go ahead.”  He encouraged.

Andrew’s hands gripped his knees and he gritted out the words.  “I think I have to stop seeing you. Outside of rehearsal, that is.  We…we have to stop this thing we’ve been doing. I’m sorry.” A long stretch of silence passed and he didn’t look up.  He was ashamed of himself for yielding so quickly, allowing his father to control and manipulate his life. How could he ever let anyone do that?  But it was his career!

Sure it was understandable for his dad to be confused about this situation, even upset about it.  But for him to say he would never be okay with his sexuality and demand he stop seeing Fletcher, threatening him in order to stop him, it was unexpected.  He’d never talked to his dad about not being straight before, but he had always assumed he was fine with the whole concept. He was a democrat, a liberal, had even cheered when he saw on television that gay marriage had been legalized in New York in 2011.  But as it turned out, he wasn’t okay with his son being bisexual.

“Are you fucking hearing me?”  Fletcher asked.

His elevated voice drew him out of his daze.  “What?”

Fletcher leaned forward on the desk.  “I said the lodging thing isn’t an issue because you can just move into my place.”

Andrew stared at him incredulously.  “What?”

“You practically live there already.  What’s the fucking difference?” He seemed unaffected, merely opening his laptop and typing out an email as if nothing significant had just happened, or was currently happening.  “And don’t worry about the tuition. I’ll take care of it.”

Andrew on the other hand was absolutely astonished, mouth hanging open.  Fletcher glanced up and raised an eyebrow in silent question and Andrew closed his mouth.  “You’re being serious.” He stated, reassurance for himself, an anchor to the reality of the situation.

“Yes?”  He responded slowly.  “Why are you so confused?”

“Because that’s insane, you realize that right?”  He was too shocked to care about being uncouth. “You’re offering to pay my tuition.”

Fletcher shrugged.  “My parents both died.  I inherited all of their money and invested it all in Apple and Coca Cola.”  He tilted his head and rolled his eyes at him. “So, it’s really not all that big a deal.  I have all of this money, no children, no family. I already own my home. I’m a tenured professor, the director of the number one band at the best conservatory in the nation.  I don’t plan on retiring any time soon.” He shrugged and went back to his computer screen. “I may as well pay your tuition.”

A weight was simultaneously lifted and placed on his shoulders.  He could relax about the blackmail from his dad, but letting Fletcher invest thousands and thousands of dollars into him and his career was a lot of pressure.  This was a whole new level of expectation. Or was that why? Was this to preserve his focus and motivation in his education by avoiding a stressful life change?  Did he think his presence so important in Andrew’s life that his performance would suffer without him? Or was it the other way around? Was Fletcher so personally and emotionally invested in him that he couldn’t fathom breaking things off now?  That was ridiculously unlikely he assumed, but the sentiment of the idea flattered him. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to do this.” He said softly.

Fletcher glanced up, still turned towards the laptop, and then back down.  “Don’t mention it.”

Something in his tone convinced Andrew that the request was serious.  So he didn’t mention it.


	14. Fourteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting to living together, growing comfortable, growing too comfortable, and then living on the defense. A new drummer transfers in, and she's... a handful. So am I. I'm bad at summaries, you know? Yeah, you do. Most of you readers follow this, there's no way I've got 800 something single time readers, so you've been dealing with my summaries for a while. Sorry!

Moving in proved to be stressful, and as soon as it was over, they spent a week not speaking to one another.  Andrew practiced at school most often to pass the time, fill the void, and stay out of the way. As much as he claimed to be okay with it, Andrew recognized that Fletcher wasn’t used to having even limited company, let alone someone inhabiting the same house.  He slept in the guest room without being asked, thinking things would go most smoothly if he just gave the man his space.

Eventually one evening, Andrew let his body get the best of his mind.  Fletcher was in the living room reading a book that he had caught sight of him with multiple times over the past week.  Instead of walking past the room and to the basement stairs, he lingered in the doorway, hoping to catch Fletcher’s eye.  

But the man didn’t look up.  Andrew leaned against the doorframe, tilting his head to try and see his line of sight more clearly and coming up short.  There was a record on, and the needle was towards the edge, reaching the end. Despite having not been noticed standing there yet, Andrew felt reluctant to call attention to himself and instead continued to stand there silently, eyes falling to the floor.  The two options that seemed most logical were to either verbally get his attention or walk away as though he had never been standing there in the first place. However, he didn’t do either, and he didn’t have an explanation as to why.

When the record spun to an end and the automatic stop needle clicked as it locked into it’s idle position, Fletcher put a earmarked the page and stood.  He glanced Andrew’s way. “Bored this evening?” He asked as he walked around the back of the sofa and turned the record over.

“A bit.”  He answered, nervously chewing on his nail.  “Do you...do you want to have a few drinks or something?”  

“I guess I could make some time.”  Fletcher said, with a taunting tilt of his head, lifting an eyebrow in bemused ridicule.  “But you know something?”

“Hm?”

“You could have said something instead of just fucking standing there.”  

* * *

 

The guest room was uninhabited from that point forward.  

For the first month that Andrew had moved in, nothing financial had changed.  Despite hanging up on him when he called to tell him about his living situation, his father didn’t immediately remove his credit card information from the school’s online payment website.  Andrew checked his phone constantly, wondering if maybe he had changed his mind or come to terms with things. He waited anxiously, desperately for a call, a text, anything from his dad that told him he wasn’t mad.  Even if he pretended his dad’s opinion about this didn’t matter to him, it did. As much as he resented and criticized his father, he had still been his closest companion his whole life. They had done everything together, and the thought that he didn’t love him anymore made him choke up.  So when he got the notification that he needed to update his payment information, he made the decision to avoid thinking about his dad at all.

Months passed and ultimately, the tension faded.  It was slow going and the situation was unlike any Andrew had ever been involved in or even witnessed.  He had moved in with his director who was also his mentor who was also his...lover? Sexual partner? The definition of their relationship still eluded him.  Regardless, it was a learning experience, apparently for the both of them.

Fletcher was a hardass, that was no doubt; it was who he was.  As it turned out, being a hardass 24/7 was exhausting. As time went on, where Fletcher would have usually spat an insult or jibe at him, silence took up residence instead.  Amusement replaced annoyance and smirks replaced scowls. All of this led Andrew to wonder if all his aggression had stemmed from fondness from the start.

Andrew had originally taken the train into the city for rehearsal.  At some point, Fletcher decided that was pointless and that it made him late twice as much as he used to be.  So he had taken to inviting Andrew to accompany him in driving to Shaffer.

Adjustment continued, and a rhythm was established.  It was only an altered version of the routine that they had begun before he moved in, following the awkward little hiccup that happened after he did.  Jeopardy became tradition. Breakfast became ritual. Good morning, goodbye, and goodnight were uttered with established practice. Comfort grew out of habit, and he certainly grew into comfort.  As it happens, they both did.

* * *

 

Fletcher woke up belatedly, around 9:00 AM.  He stared at the clock in absolute astonishment that he’d slept this late in the day, and genuinely had no idea when he had fallen asleep.  Somehow it seemed the night before had ended peacefully, and the last thing he remembered was the feeling of the mattress dipping beside him as Andrew laid down.  Had he really fallen asleep so quickly?

It was summer now.  Andrew was practicing as often and as intensely as he had been before.  He was keeping sharp, staying in shape, not letting himself waver in the slightest.  Marsalis offered him a spot, but he hadn’t signed a contract yet, and there was nothing that promised someone better wouldn’t come along.

Having the kid live here had been quite the transition.  The basement was a new visual representation of change in his life.  Where there had once been gym equipment, there was now boxes and small pieces of furniture.  Andrew had plenty of stuff to be put in storage, and it just made sense to use the basement for that.  So they consolidated the instruments and gym equipment, squeezing both into one half of the single room.

Other things had changed too.  

Sunday was now a word that meant something other than “no rehearsals”.  He had a vague idea of what Etta James must have meant. The day did have it’s connotation, and a certain air hung about it.  

One of those things was pancakes.  Andrew had proved to be as much of a creature of habit as he had assumed, and made pancakes like clockwork, every Sunday morning.  Usually he was already awake when he started doing so. He got up and didn’t get dressed, instead making his way downstairs in his thin, blue, pajama pants to the kitchen where he could smell coffee being brewed.  Or already brewed, it seemed, as he was handed a cup before he had fully made his way into the kitchen. He took a sip, not even stuttering to wonder if Andrew had put a single packet of splenda into it, because he knew he had.  

“Pecans?”  He asked as he looked over his shoulder at the pancakes frying in a cast iron skillet on the stove.  

“Walnuts.”  Andrew replied.  “And peaches, if you want them.”  

“Yeah, sounds good.”  He said noncommittally as he took his seat at the breakfast table, glancing out the window.  “When did you put a bird feeder out here?”

Andrew flipped a pancake and huffed when it landed slightly askew, edge against the bend of the pan.  “What?” He looked over his shoulder and nodded his understanding when he saw a bluebird perched on it.  “Oh, I found it at a thrift store the other day and thought it was cool.”

Fletcher’s brow furrowed.  “What were you shopping for?”  He asked.

“Shorts.”  He replied.  “Mine are too loose now and it’s starting to get warm enough to wear them.”  

“Why don’t you go shopping in a real store?”  Fletcher asked, nodding his thanks when Andrew handed him a plate of mildly misshapen pancakes.  

Andrew shrugged and turned the burner off as he flipped the last one out of the pan and into his own plate.  “Because they’re cheaper at the thrift store and I only wear them for four months out of the year anyway?”

Fletcher rolled his eyes.  What was wrong with this kid?  “If you need shorts, you can get shorts.  Just take my card and go shopping.” _What, I can buy him a damn three piece suit but not a few pairs of  fucking shorts?_  

In lieu of his mouthful of pancakes, Andrew nodded his direction in acknowledgement.  When he had finished chewing, he took a sip of orange juice and shrugged again, a nervous tic of a sort most likely.  “Well thanks. I guess I just didn’t think to ask.”

He nodded and finished most of his breakfast without looking Andrew’s way again for a few moments.  When he did, a smirk crossed his face at the toothpaste on the kid’s cheek that had somehow gone unnoticed for all of breakfast.  He stood, carrying his plate to the sink and refilling his coffee. “You should make these with the walnuts more often.” He said absently, taking a few steps in reverse towards the table to gently wipe the toothpaste off with his thumb.  When Andrew looked up at him, eyes wide and smile wider, he let himself linger, though he actively avoided a true smile in return.

“Thanks.”  
  
“For what?”  

Andrew looked up at him a moment more before breathing out through his nose and looking down at the table once more.  “Nothing. Never mind.”

Fletcher hesitated, and then hummed, turning around and stirring splenda into his coffee.  “So, shopping today?”

* * *

 

The first day of fall semester came, and for the first time in his career as a director at Shaffer, it felt like it came out of nowhere.  Instead of being focused and driven and ready, it came too soon. He set his bag down by the desk in his office and then stepped back out into the empty rehearsal room, letting a sigh escape his lips as he looked around.  Not once in his life had he ever felt this unenthused about the start of a semester. What was it that was causing this? He must just be in a bad mood. There was no other explanation.

He checked his watch.  Twenty minutes before the start of class.  He stepped back into his office and sat down in his chair with a grunt.  The minutes ticked by, filled with the sound of him fidgeting with the loose screw on the handle of a drawer on his desk.  When something finally did disrupt it, it was Andrew walking in, just a few minutes early with coffee for the both of them.

“I already had coffee.”  

“Yeah, but you seemed a little tired and irritable when you left this morning, so I thought-”

“Thanks.”  

Andrew held out the cup to him.  “So,” he sank gracelessly down into the chair across from him.  “First semester of my junior year. I’m almost done.”

Fletcher rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee.  “You’re not almost done. You’re halfway done.”

Andrew shrugged.  “Only two years left.  That feels almost done to me.”  

“Your misunderstanding of the concept of time is alarming.” He refused to look at him, attention only regained when he saw a smile on his face out of the corner of his eye.  “What?”

He lowered his eyebrows in faux confusion.  “What do you mean _what_?”

“What the fuck are you smiling at?”  He demanded, no smile on his face although maybe part of this was in jest.  

The kid pulled a smug disarming face and shrugged again.  Again. “Nothing, Fletcher. I’m just...” He met his eyes, and the transition between humor and warmth was visible and he let his own expression soften as he spoke. “I’m just happy, and I like you.  So, I smiled.”

_He doesn’t know what he’s in the middle of.  He trusts me and he thinks I give a shit about him beyond a legacy for myself.  His jawline is so much more defined now than it was a couple years ago. He’s really shaped up, I mean look at his shoulders and arms.  He could use a haircut. When was the last time he got a trim? His sideburns are...ah shit. How long have I been staring at him?_

He averted his eyes without another word.  “Go tune the set. Make yourself fucking useful for once.”

Andrew hesitated for a moment, but then the phone rang.  Fletcher answered it and shot the kid a look and he took the hint, finishing his coffee and throwing it in the garbage before walking out of the office and to the kit.  

* * *

 

_So how’s studio band this semester? -C_

Andrew was killing time between rehearsals at his usual pizza place when the text from Connolly popped up.  He had graduated the previous year, though he had been a little unenthused about it since he never really stayed on core in studio band for any real length of time.  They spoke from time to time. He wouldn’t call it a friendship, but it was an acquaintance, and one he was now thankful to have. As annoying as Connolly could be, there were very few people he could actually relate to about this.  Ryan was one of them; the other wasn’t speaking to him and hadn’t for over a year.

_The same really.  The setlist isn’t set in stone yet but so far it’s pretty simple shit.  -Andrew_

_Ah.  Well that’s good.  Don’t let some obnoxious snot-nosed alternate squeeze you out.  -C_

_Yeah, just imagine.  What kind of asshole would do that?  -Andrew_

_Eh, it worked out okay.  I’m playing with a small group in Philly.  -C_

_That’s great, congrats man.  -Andrew_

_Yeah. -C_

_Don’t let Fletcher kill you this semester.  -C_

_I’ll try not to._

* * *

 

“First day of the year.  It’s your favorite, right?”  The dean walked into his office and sat on the edge of his desk, knowing he hated it when people did that. “You get to put the fear of God into your students all over again.

He glared at her placement and exhaled slowly to steady himself.  His eyes met hers and he forced a tight lipped smile. “Oh, yes. It’s a real hoot.”  He swept eraser shavings from his desktop into his hand and tipped them into the trash can.  

Agatha followed his movement, tilting her head as she looked into the trash can.  “Rough morning?”

“What do you mean?”  

She looked back at him and lifted her eyebrows.  “Two venti coffees.” She picked the empty cup up off of his desk and looked at the sticker.  “This one with two added shots of espresso.” She looked at the sticker for a moment longer and he felt his throat constrict in both irritation and concern, knowing that the name on the cup was not his own.

He snatched the cup from her hands and tossed it into the garbage.  “I got one on my way in.  Andrew Neiman brought me a coffee. First day of rehearsal. He does it every semester and every semester I tell him it isn’t necessary.”  

She hummed and nodded, eyes falling to the floor.  “Right. That’s a...that’s a good student. Hm?”

Fletcher just shrugged and stood, slipping his phone into his pocket lest he receive a call or message from the student in question.  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” He asked snidely.

She rolled her eyes and stood as well.  “We have a transfer student from the Cleveland Institute.  She’s a third year and she wants to audition for you rather than sit around in one of the lower bands waiting to get noticed.  I said I’d let you know.”

He lifted an eyebrow.  “Wind? Keys?”

“Drummer.”  

He nodded, pulling a face of interest.  “Well enroll her in the lower and I’ll keep an ear out.”  Students started coming back into the room for the evening rehearsal, and he pushed his way past Agatha and up to the front of the room.

Andrew came in and was stepping towards him, but he pointedly avoided his gaze and turned his back to him, neatly etching an instruction to warm up individually for the first ten minutes of rehearsal on the board, promptly leaving the room following.  

* * *

 

They settled back into their routine from the previous semester, waking up, showering, getting dressed, eating breakfast, and driving to Shaffer together.  It saved Andrew the cost of the bus or train every day, and saved Fletcher the annoyance of him being late so consistently. Generally the faculty parking deck in the garage across the street was mostly empty by the time they got there every morning.  There was a staircase on either side of it. They went down opposite ones. It was the most logical approach to appearing as if they wanted nothing to do with one another, which was important to a certain point. Rumors may have already been circulating, and had been since very early in his career, but nothing concrete had ever been produced.  While he was tenured, it was still beneficial to avoid scandal. Parents had already gotten up in arms after the fiasco regarding Casey, and he preferred not to have anything similar happen again. It was a wonder Jim Neiman hadn’t filed an official complaint.

How he had managed to keep Andrew from finding out any details regarding Sean Casey was also a wonder.  He’d heard whispers and mentions, and he had asked about him, but he hadn’t dug any deeper. There was no doubt he knew it was something relatively unsavory, something akin to the situation they were currently in the midst of, but the nitty gritty of it was still his own.  

Two months went by without complication, and he grew comfortable.  Maybe a little too comfortable, especially for him. It was rather his tradition to remain as untrusting and guarded as possible, but things had been going well for so long; the whole previous semester, and then these past couple of months.  He’d lost the instinct to be paranoid over this.

Thus it came as a surprise when they were met on one of the staircases in the garage as they descended side by side by Kramer.  

He looked up as he was climbing the stairs to pause in confusion.  “Andrew, you know you can’t park in this deck. It’s faculty only.”  

Andrew blinked, mouth open but wordless.  He glanced to Fletcher, because obviously if either of them had to think fast it was best for it to be him.  Andrew was a stupid, slow, useless little fuck. He couldn’t give an explanation for why he breathed air if he was asked on the spot.   _Stupid fuck.  Just fucking look at those wide, confused, panicked eyes.  And it’s not just now. He always fucking looks like that, flush in his cheeks and all._

He cleared his throat.  “Actually, he walked up here to bring me my car keys.  Forgot them in my office, and I called down to ask him to bring them.”  

Kramer’s eyebrows stayed lowered, but he said nothing else, just looked them both over once before continuing upstairs.

Fletcher shot Andrew a look and they continued down to the street level exit.  

“So...that was close.”  Andrew finally said after a stretch of silence.  “Do you think he knew anything?”

Fletcher shrugged.  “Maybe. Doesn’t matter.  He’s perpetually inconsequential.  And too stupid to put two and two together.”

Andrew hummed, fingers nervously tapping on his stick bag.  “What if he mentions it to the dean?”

“Oh, you think she’s not as stupid as Kramer?”

* * *

 

Andrew took the subway the next day out of sheer paranoia, despite Fletcher insisting it wasn’t necessary, but telling him to “do whatever the fuck you want”.  When he bounded into the band room, he was about two minutes late. Rather than immediately going to the kit and sitting down, he found himself standing, blindsided by the doorway.  

“Glad you could join us.”  Fletcher said with a smug grin.  

“Who is this?” He asked, gesturing to the girl sitting at the kit.  

“The new alternate.”  Fletcher answered. “What’d you think?  You think you’re my pride and joy? Nobody else can hold a candle to Andrew Neiman?  You thought you were gonna coast through these next two years as the only drummer?”

Andrew looked the girl over, her shaggy, boyish, sandy blonde hair, her oversized Ohio State sweatshirt, her pants so wide that they may as well have been bell-bottoms for the modern era.  She flashed him a smile, and he was torn between thinking it looked phony and thinking it looked genuine. “I didn’t say that. I just didn’t know we had a new alternate.”

“Other students exist, and I don’t run everything by you.  Now go take a seat.” Fletcher barked back. When Andrew still hesitated, he rolled his eyes.  “Behind her. Welcome back to the world of page-turning, at least for today.”

She was good.  That much became clear very quickly.  She didn’t miss a single cue, kept her eyes pasted on Fletcher as though she’d memorized the piece with a single glance earlier in the rehearsal, and neither her tempo nor her technique wavered in the slightest.  Nobody said another word during the rehearsal, save for Fletcher, and from him they only got cues and instruction.

Afterwards, he stood and she followed, sticking her hand out with zeal.  “Hey, what’s up? Nice to meet you, I’m Cam.”

He hesitantly took her hand and shook it.  “Andrew.”

“Yeah I know.  My band from my old school did a trip here for the jazz fest last year at Carnegie.”  She grinned. “Damn good solo, man. Can’t imagine the kind of shit you must’ve gone through to pour out that much soul outta nowhere.”

Andrew blinked and shrugged.  “Yeah, I guess.” He glanced over his shoulder and watched Fletcher walk into his office with a smirk his direction before closing the door.  What was he trying to do here? Was he baiting him? This girl who was a drummer, who was praising him, who was that aggressive, assertive, bold kind of girl that was exactly his type...what was he doing?  “So how long have you been at Shaffer?”

“I just moved here.  I used to go to...” She kept talking but his mind was racing too fast in the other direction to pay attention.  Fletcher was on the other side of that door, sitting there feeling real pleased with himself and his plan to...to...god knows what.  He was trying to sabotage him again, break his focus, screw up his plans. Weren’t they past this? Hell, they were closer than he had ever been with anyone really.  They lived together, slept in the same bed, drove to rehearsal together, did nearly everything together. They were entirely dependent on each other. Maybe that was the problem.  Maybe this just felt like sabotage because he’d become too codependent with Fletcher. But when had their relationship ever been healthy? “So, you know,” He tuned back into what Cam was saying.  “Can’t handle staying in one place too long without getting antsy. I decided to move to New York. Luckily my credits transferred. They tried to stick me in the lower band but, _hello_ I’m a third year.  And I knew Fletcher was known for being kind of a dick, but that’s exactly the kind of reinforcement I need.  I do best under pressure. Gives me someone to prove wrong, you know?”

 _Oh._  She wasn’t for him.  She was for Fletcher.  She basically _was_ Andrew!  But why did he need another prodigy?  Why did he need a carbon copy of him? And she was a girl!  That wasn’t Fletcher’s lane. What the hell was going on?

“Are you okay?”  

He blinked.  “What? Yeah I’m fine.  Why?”

She tilted her head and laughed.  “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe just because you haven’t spoken in about two minutes.”  She packed her bag up. “You’re quiet, huh? I’ve never been a quiet person. Probably talk too much for my own good.  But I like people and I need to make friends. Not that it’s ever been that hard. I’m pretty charismatic, or so I’ve been told.  My ex-girlfriend used to get insanely jealous because everyone just instantly feels comfortable with me. Well, everyone who isn’t an introvert.  I always remember-”

 _Good lord.  Okay, maybe not a carbon copy._ This girl was like adderall and four shots of espresso personified.    “Yeah,” he answered when she finally stopped talking. “I’m kind of a loner.  Definitely an introvert.”

“That’s probably a good thing.  You seem really focused. It’ll probably help your career.  It’s like how they put blinders on horses for races so they don’t get distracted.”  She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Well I’m gonna get going. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”  She waved and slipped out the door.

She really defied the stereotype he’d assumed upon seeing her.  That skater look was usually associated with people who were too cool to give anyone the time of day, or maybe not too cool, but too apathetic.  Instead, she was as bouncy as an eight year old with a sugar rush. He didn’t feel as threatened now as he had when he first walked in. She was too flighty and distracted to ever compete with him.  

He put his backpack on and glanced at the door to the office, wondering if he should head on home since there wasn’t another rehearsal or if he should go down to the practice room and fill time until Fletcher was done with his work day.  His answer was found when the dean walked in.

“Hello, Andrew.”  She said cordially.  

He forced a smile.  “Oh, hi.”

“Good rehearsal?”  

“It was fine.”  He nodded and awkwardly looked away before dipping out of the room, heading downstairs to practice.

* * *

 

Fletcher looked up when a knock was heard on the door.  Assuming it was Andrew, he answered it, leaning on the door frame, eyebrow lifted teasingly.  When he was faced with Agatha instead, he blinked and straightened up. “Oh. What?”

“Who were you expecting?”  She asked, hands folded professionally in front of her.  

He shook his head.  “A student with a bone to pick.”  

She hummed and stepped into the office.  “It’s come to my attention that you are driving Andrew Neiman to school most days.  That’s awfully nice of you. Where is it he’s been living since he moved off campus?”  

He walked back around the desk and sat down with a sigh.  He’d have to smooth-talk himself out of this one as well. “Brooklyn.  He happens to live two blocks away from me.”

“So you decided to drive him every day because he lives nearby?”  

“Got sick of him being late.”  

Moments ticked by with her gaze trained on him, waiting for him to say more.  However, he knew that the more he talked, the more he incriminated himself. He kept quiet.  Eventually she sighed and turned around, shutting the door and then facing him again. “Terence, you know as well as I do that you have a certain reputation, and that it’s not exactly one to take pride in.”  

“How so?”  

“Everyone in the business has something to say about you and young male students, the inappropriate relationships you tend to cultivate-”

“Are we operating on the belief in rumors now?”  He asked sternly.

“I’ve been suspicious myself for a year now about the nature of your relationship with Andrew.”  She countered, taking a seat on the edge of the desk once more. He narrowed his eyes when she did.  “Kramer noticed the two of you in the parking garage yesterday. The security footage shows you doing this every day.”  

Fletcher sat back and crossed his arms.  “I already admitted to that.” He spat back at her.  “And that doesn’t mean anything.”

Agatha nodded.  “I looked into it, Terence.”  She said quietly. “Your credit card is listed as his primary method of tuition payment.  You’ve paid for two of his semesters already. What conclusion do you expect me to draw from that?”

Fletcher huffed and rolled his eyes.  “Do we really need to get into this? Couldn’t we respect the kid’s privacy a little better than that?”

“If it’s not what I think, tell me what it is.”  

Fletcher glared up at her and stood so that he didn’t have to anymore.  “His father disowned him. He was struggling financially. You expect me to just let the best drummer who’s come through these halls in decades have to drop out because his father didn’t approve of his lifestyle?”  

“Terence, for the love of god, we both know-”

“No we don’t.”  He answered angrily.  “You have no fucking proof that anything inappropriate is going on, and frankly, I think it’s inappropriate to make an accusation like this without any backing.”  He crowded into her space. “I think I may just need to go to the president of the school with this. How dare you come into my office and accuse me of this? I may be an asshole, but I do care about my students.  Andrew Neiman has success in his bones. I’d be a piece of shit if I didn’t use the wealth I have and don’t need in order to help him achieve it.”

“You _are_ a piece of shit.”  

“He’s talent.”  He hissed back. “He’s destined for greatness.  He’s a prodigy, a legacy, and one thing he is for damn sure, is nothing more than that to me.”  His head swam with irritation. Without proof how could she come here with this? “He’s a worm. He’s a child.  He’s an obnoxious, self righteous, big headed little shithead. But I’m getting older and I don’t have any children.  I’ve got to leave a mark somewhere.”

Agatha sighed and stood, sweeping the one stray strand of hair that escaped her ponytail behind her ear.  “Don’t think this is going unnoticed. I can only let rumors go ignored for so long. Eventually they become so common they warrant investigation.”  

“Okay, well you get the Hardy Boys together.  I’ll be waiting for you to produce a warrant, Nancy Drew.”  


	15. Fifteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, comparatively. Sean Casey is a name that gets thrown around a lot, and always in an accusatory way. Wouldn't it be great if you knew what was going on there? Wouldn't it be great if Andrew did? (The answer is no, but read it anyway.) Also, the holidays are strange for Andrew this year since he's been ostracized from his family. There may be a few ways he can regain some semblance of normality about the season. 
> 
> Very serious trigger warning for this chapter, folks. Suicide mention and a lot of alcoholism talk.

The realization that he had forgotten his stick bag in the classroom was unpleasant enough as it was.  Andrew already didn’t want to have to be in there because the dean was in there; unsurprisingly, he was a very skittish person.  It was even more unpleasant when he walked back in and heard that Fletcher was shouting. 

It was muffled, behind the closed office door, but a few words made it through.  _ Prodigy...legacy...nothing...obnoxious, self righteous, big headed little shithead.   _ He held the bag in his hand and stared at the door for a long moment.  There was really no doubt he was talking about him, was there? Had he been fooled this whole time?  Was Fletcher really just grooming him for success and nothing more? For so long he had figured he was just using him, and it seemed logical that it was true; lately he had begun to suspect that maybe Fletcher thought of him as more than student who was also a convenient fuck.  Things had gotten so normal, pleasant, comfortable, he thought that meant something.

Did it matter?  He went into this expecting to be nothing but a plaything, so why should he be disappointed to find out that that was true?  Sure things had changed, but why should he be upset over things reverting to exactly what they were always supposed to be?

The sound of the doorknob turning startled him and his eyes widened.  Fletcher came out first and did a double take, eyebrows lowering when he looked fully at Andrew.   _ Shit.  _ This was never a conversation he was meant to hear, and obviously a bad time to be seen in the room after rehearsals.  He stepped back silently and ducked behind a tall filing cabinet against the wall. 

The dean came out after Fletcher and he walked her to the door.  “Think twice next time you want to come in here and pull accusations out of your ass, hm?”  He said, snark the overwhelming tone of his voice as per usual. She sighed and left the room, turning down a hallway while Fletcher closed the door behind her.  

The man stared down at the doorknob for a long moment.  “Forget something or just eavesdropping?” 

Andrew swallowed nervously.  “My sticks.” He answered. 

Fletcher nodded and turned around.  “That was a really bad conversation for you to have walked in here during.” 

“Yeah.”  Andrew said, dejection and accusation in his own voice.  “I guess it was.” 

He inhaled slowly and walked towards him, arms crossed.  “If she had seen you she would have questioned both of us and we would have been in legitimate trouble.” 

Andrew tilted his head.  “What do you mean?” 

“How much did you hear?  She was accusing me of having an inappropriate relationship with you.”  

“I didn’t hear that part.”  He replied. “I thought...I guess I thought you were just talking shit about me.”  

Fletcher grimaced and shook his head.  “What?” 

  
“You know, all that stuff about me being obnoxious and stupid and big headed and stuff.”  He shrugged and tugged his backpack closer just to give him something to do. “Whatever. It’s fine, I don’t care.”  He kept his eyes on the floor until he heard Fletcher scoff. “What?” 

“You’re seriously upset about that?  Andrew, I was deflecting her suspicions.”  He held his arms out in question. “What do you expect me to say?  “Ah, yes! Andrew and I have been living together for months, in fact.  Sleeping together for over a year!” What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Andrew chewed his lip absently, sticking his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting.  “I don’t know.” He finally replied. “Why do people have such reason to suspect shit anyway?” He asked.  

“Excuse me?”  

“Well you know, it’s not just her.”  He replied, stepping closer to him. “I’m not the first, am I?  Everyone at the gala seemed to know it. Marie Faust knew it. I’ve heard the name Sean Casey thrown around constantly in those circles, all in relation to you.  I’ve heard people talking about your habit of picking young guys from the band, spending a lot of time with them, taking them everywhere with-” 

“What is your point?”  Fletcher asked lowly. 

Andrew’s lips closed, pressed together as he stared at him, eyes wide and hands shaking just a touch in what was either anger, adrenaline, sadness or a combination of the three.  “Well...what happened to them? What, do you end up getting tired of them and dropping them? Are they not successful enough for you? Or do you just like to have somebody new every four years? I mean, what happened to Sean Casey?  Did he end up sucking and you just threw him out?” 

Fletcher moved closer to him again, crowding into his space until he backed him up against the wall.  He kept his arms crossed, not touching him in the slightest. “You don’t get to talk about Sean Casey.” 

“Why?  Are you still fucking him?”  He asked in a quiet voice.

The man’s stare was like ice.  A long moment passed before he inhaled slowly and grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him into his office.  He stopped by the back wall and pushed Andrew forward, towards a photograph of the Jazz Band at Lincoln Center two years prior.  He pointed at one of the trumpet players. “That is Sean Casey.” He spat.

Andrew stared at the photograph.  Young, but with very little energy in his eyes.  His hair was longer than his own, and blonde, but combed much neater than he usually took the time to do.  One of the few people in the picture who wasn’t smiling. He turned when he heard Fletcher open the top drawer on his desk.  He rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a bulletin, a catholic church’s emblem on the front. He shoved it towards Andrew with a phony smile on his face and Andrew felt his own face soften when he looked at it, realizing it was the program from a funeral.  He swallowed and looked back up at Fletcher. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“How could you have?”  Fletcher asked without any obvious emotion.  “I hadn’t spoken to him in years..” He sat down, leaning back in his chair.  Andrew remained standing. “Sure, it was a bit of a similar situation. I heard him in a practice room, invited him to join studio band.  He steadily got better and better until he made every other trumpet player in my band weep for how magnificently fucking incompetent they were.  He hung around after rehearsal a lot. I invited him over, gave him his first drink. Turns out there was a reason he’d never had a drink before; alcoholism ran in his family.  He drank heavier and heavier as time went on, stopped talking to me or anyone else for that matter, couple season at Lincoln center, and then he killed himself.” 

Andrew blinked and glanced back at the photo before sinking down into the other chair.  “So he cut you out.” 

Fletcher nodded.  “And I accepted his decision to distance himself, just as I would if you ever decided to do the same thing.  But you should know that as similar as it was, it didn’t last more than a semester. He never even spent a full evening at my house, let alone live there.  I was nowhere near as invested in him.” 

“Then why does everyone always talk about him?”  

“My sexuality became public knowledge the same year I took him with me to one of the galas.”  Fletcher answered with a shrug. “Some information about how I spent my year abroad in Budapest started getting spread around.  Then I show up to an event with a teenage boy, and it was the talk of the town.” 

It still left him feeling unsettled, but he didn’t push anymore.  Obviously it was a sore spot, and it seemed in poor taste to try and get anymore information about it in lieu of the knowledge that Casey had killed himself.  But a part of him did feel like there was more to it.

* * *

 

When the holidays came back around, Andrew found himself feeling lost.  The decorations in storefronts and windows, wreaths hung on lamp posts throughout Brooklyn, and families out doing holiday shopping were all just a glaring reminder of the absence of his family.  As annoying at they were, he had never known this season without them. He knew he wouldn’t be welcome at Hanukkah this year. Obviously his dad knew about the situation with Fletcher. So did his uncle, and Travis.  And if Travis knew, Dustin knew. And if Dustin knew, there was no chance Aunt Emma didn’t. He was a mama’s boy if there ever was one. There would be no family holidays this year. 

“So do  you celebrate Christmas?”  He asked Fletcher one Sunday morning, hoping to draw his attention away from his coffee and newspaper and back to him.  

“Hm?”  He asked without looking up.

No luck.  “I asked if you celebrate Christmas.  I’ve never celebrated Christmas before.  Might be interesting.” 

Fletcher put his newspaper down and lifted his eyebrow as well as his coffee cup.  “What do you mean you’ve never celebrated Christmas?” 

Andrew let out a breath of laughter.  “I’m Jewish.” 

“Ah.”  He nodded.  “Right, I forgot.”  

“You didn’t put up a tree or anything last year.”  Andrew responded. 

“I haven’t put up a tree in years.”  He folded the newspaper and sat it aside, getting up and setting his dishes in the sink.  “But it’s December 15th. You don’t think it’s too late to be worth it?” 

Andrew shrugged and pushed his food around on his plate for another few seconds before giving up on choking it down entirely and setting his fork down.  “I guess.” 

Fletcher turned towards him, and Andrew felt his eyes on him for a long moment before the man sighed.  “I’ll get a damn tree.” 

“You don’t have to.”  

“I know that.”  

Andrew waited until he’d left the kitchen to smile.  

* * *

 

The door swung open and as it did, a flurry of swears flowed into the otherwise silent house as Fletcher came in, albeit a bit slowly.  Andrew lowered his eyebrows in confusion. He’d just gone out for groceries, what could he be in such a fuss about? He got up off of the sofa and leaned around the corner just in time to see Fletcher, clad in a brimmed wool hat, thick wool overcoat, scarf, and work gloves that looked hilariously out of place on him, trying his damnedest to pull an enormous tree through the particularly narrow front door.  

“You wanna give me some fucking help here?”  He demanded, stepping back and putting his hands on his hips while he caught his breath.  His entire face was flushed red from the cold. “I can carry this thing for six blocks but you can’t help me get it through the front door?”  

Andrew suppressed a grin, but not very well.  “I didn’t even know it was snowing.”

Fletcher shook the snow off his coat and huffed.  “It sure as hell is.” 

He went to the door and managed to climb over some of the branches to stand outside behind the tree, lifting the trunk.  “Push it back out. We have to take it in trunk first if it’s going to fit. The branches are pointed up. They’ll get snagged if we do it this way.”

Fletcher scoffed and rolled his eyes, though he did lift the top of the tree and help back it out again.  “Oh, this morning you had never even celebrated Christmas, and now suddenly you’re Saint fucking Nick himself.”  He said, grunting with exertion.

After a great deal of struggling, arguing, and murmured cursing, they managed to get the thing into the living room.  Andrew stood back and looked it over, leaning against the wall in the corner opposite the piano. “How do you get it to stand up straight?”  

“I have to go find the tree stand.”  Fletcher responded, wiping the tree sap on his jeans.   _ Jeans?   _ He had never witnessed him wearing jeans in the entire time he had known him.  “It should be somewhere in the basement.” 

“I bought some ornaments.  Just a big value pack of regular gold and red ones.  They’re down in the basement too. I didn’t know if you had any.”  Andrew walked out of the living room and down into the basement, Fletcher following closely behind.

“I might, but I don’t know where if I do.”  

They rummaged through boxes for a half hour before they finally found the tree stand, although it was actually in the closet that housed the water heater.

“I’m not putting ornaments on it.”  Fletcher said as they went back upstairs.

“What?  Isn’t that the whole point?”

“Well,” he set the tree stand down and loosened the screws.  “You’re welcome to. I’m just saying I’m not personally going to do it.  I hate decorating Christmas trees. I bought the damn thing and lugged it down here.  You want it decorated, then you’ll have to do it.” 

Once he had gotten the tree in the stand and adjusted it until it was straight, with Andrew’s help of course, Fletcher retired up to the bedroom with his book.  This left Andrew to decorate a tree, having never done so, on his own. He had seen plenty. He lived in New York; it was Christmas central. There were enormous trees in every district, in every borough, on every television screen.  But where did you start?

He put half the ornaments on before he realized he didn’t have lights, and that most trees had lights.  After recalling that he had seen a box with a few Christmas decorations in it downstairs while searching for the stand, he went to retrieve them.  Small white lights. Two strings of them. Would that be enough? He took the ornaments back off and put the lights on, but had to adjust them three times before they looked evenly spaced and covered the whole tree.  Then the ornaments. Too much red in one spot. Not enough gold in another. Why did he care so much about this? 

Maybe putting old traditions and rituals behind him required creating new ones.  He had to do something to fill the empty hole in his chest where Hanukkah with his dad was supposed to go.  When he finally finished, it was the most traditional looking Christmas tree he could imagine. Somehow he had managed to make it look just about perfect.  It could be on the cover of a card, no doubt. The only thing missing was a star, and he didn’t have a star. So he went downstairs, opened the cabinet, and pulled a gold trumpet mouthpiece out of one of the scattered cases, then outside to pull some holly sprigs off a bush in front of a neighboring porch.  The stems fit perfectly into the small end of the mouthpiece, and the result was a small bouquet of holly leaves and berries. It didn’t look ridiculous, even though the concept was ridiculous and probably only considered because of two glasses of whiskey. And when he climbed up on a chair to put it on the top of the tree, it fit, and he didn’t fall.  He counted that as a success. 

So he plugged in the strings of lights, turned out the lamps, smiled at his work, and retreated up to the bedroom.  Fletcher kept reading while he changed out of his clothes and into a pair of pajama pants. They muttered goodnights, and Andrew turned out his lamp while Fletcher’s stayed on.  He managed to fall asleep, thanks to the alcohol, and stayed that way.

* * *

 

The next morning when he woke up late, around eleven, Fletcher wasn’t there.  He must have gone out to actually get groceries, or maybe somewhere for coffee on his own.   After all, the man was an introvert in truth. Finding where he could squeeze in solitude was as much a process for Fletcher was it was for Andrew.  

He stumbled downstairs, yawning and wiping at his still weary eyes.  After making coffee like always and pouring himself a cup with about a pound of sugar poured in, he walked into the living room to look at the tree again.  He was surprised to see an off-white tree skirt with red and green plaid trim around the base. Fletcher must have been out and back and out again, if he went and got the tree skirt.  Upon closer inspection, he saw a single blue ornament that didn’t match any of the rest, that he most certainly didn’t put up. His lip curled up into a warm smile when he saw what it was; The Star of David, hanging prominently on a branch in the center of the tree. 

* * *

Fletcher sat in a quiet corner of the cafe with a triple espresso and a leather bound James Baldwin that he’d bought years ago and never gotten around to reading.  Ever since the discussion about Sean earlier in the semester, he’d been recalling promises he’d made to himself and dwelling on memories longer than usual. As a result, he was pushing Andrew away, just a touch.  He had been for a while, maybe without the kid noticing. Now he was starting to feel a little bit guilty about it. Especially since Andrew was acting as though nothing had changed and everything was fine. That’s probably why he got the fucking tree.  Trying to make up for how distant he’d been; well, how much more distant than usual.

He swore he wouldn’t get involved with another student.  It had been a habit for long enough, since nearly the beginning of his career.  Then Sean came along, and he was just like all the rest. Except he was softer. He was breakable.  And Fletcher hadn’t noticed until it was too late. 

Every time somebody said the name all he could see was Sean’s face, flushed with anger, streaked with tears, shouting in his face how it was his fault.  He’d been a virgin before Fletcher. He’d been straightedge. He didn’t drink, or do drugs, or smoke cigarettes or anything. He had his little friend group and they went to the movies and played board games and had jam sessions together in his buddy’s garage and everything was normal.  And then Fletcher took it all away. 

He encouraged him to drink exactly what he’d been avoiding his entire life, put the glass in his hand, put the bottle in his sight.   He yelled at him in rehearsal, called him worthless, slapped him around, singled him out, and then made easy, gentle love to him in the privacy of his home.  He told him everything was only hard now because it was going to get so incredible later. 

When he started drinking heavy, he didn’t just push Fletcher away, he pushed everyone away.  He would come and go from rehearsal without saying a word to anyone. He didn’t know how to be with his friends anymore because he’d lost his ability to socialize without drinking.  His mother found out he was drinking, and it was too reminiscent of the way his father was before he left. She couldn’t even look at him the same anymore.

“You preach success,” he had yelled at him, voice hoarse from more screaming than he had spoken in months, “but you don’t tell anyone that they lose everything else on the way there!  You fucked me over! I’ve lost everything to you! You corrupted me and my idea of everything. I can’t even breathe the same anymore!” He pushed him and beat his fists against his chest and Fletcher grasped his wrists and held them apart, away from him, and Casey just slumped, as though lifeless against him, still drawing in ragged breaths, drenched in whiskey laced sweat.  

He didn’t have a retort.  He let Casey breathe until he was calm enough to leave, slamming the door behind him.  

They didn’t speak after that, even when he became third trumpet at Lincoln Center.  Even when he became first. He never spoke a word of that to Fletcher, like most old students did when they achieved their goals, even the students he’d slept with.  He went to three concerts while he was with the band, lingered afterwards backstage with all the other elites, tried to catch his eye, but he always avoided his. 

So they had lost touch.  It was a blow, and he couldn’t figure out why.  He was tortured by the words echoing in his head for months.   _ It’s your fault!  You fucked me over!  You corrupted me! I can’t even breathe-   _ And then he got the call one day, heard the words.  “Sean Casey passed away. He hung himself in his apartment.”  

That was it.  That was supposed to be it.  He swore he wouldn’t do it anymore after all of that.  Sure, he and Casey hadn’t been involved for very long, and it had been exclusively his own personal blend of sex and mentoring, but nothing had ever made him feel so hollow as to realize he was the reason a bright young musician was dead, to realize that maybe several were and nobody ever called about the others.

And then motherfucking Andrew Neiman came along, with his raw talent, headstrong nature, pouty lips, and desperation for approval.  

Fletcher had his instincts, and Andrew was his type.  That certain brand of vulnerable. But he wasn’t going to initiate anything, because he had that same kind of sadness in his eyes that Sean had.  He had that same troubled childhood story that Sean had. So he stuck to being that director, pushed his limits, got in his face, challenged him like he did any kid he selected to mentor.  It was all normal. Andrew submitted, worked his ass off, did what he said, improved, and then...then he pulled a fast one, came out of left field, and  _ fought back.   _ He cowered and grovelled and cried, but every now and again there was a fire in his eyes that was unlike any student he’d ever had, let alone Sean.  And it didn’t feel anything like it did with the other students when he began to be invested in Andrew. It wasn’t as night and day. They were so much closer to equal, in everything.  He saw too much of himself in Andrew, and too much of somebody else entirely, and when he walked into that shop and he was there, his gut reaction outweighed any logic and he began something that had now been going on for about two full years now.  And things were good. Andrew living there wasn’t as obnoxious as he had ever expected. His house felt more like home than it ever had before. This wasn’t the same situation as it had been with Sean. This was the long haul, as embarrassing as that sounded to him when he was doing his absolute best not to call this a relationship.  But really, it was one. Was that so bad?

“Can I get you a refill, sir?”  

He looked up at the waitress, coffee stains on her white apron, still holding the book open on the first page and having read absolutely none of it.  “Actually, um...” He cleared his throat and nodded, eyes falling back down to the table. “I’m fine.” 


	16. Sixteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of time jumping. Andrew graduates. I'm not feeling like writing a summary right now. It's a good chapter though. I like it.

So things went on. They celebrated Christmas in the most “them” way possible; whiskey, a jazz Christmas music album, and one gift each, which neither of them knew the other was doing. 

“You got me something?”  Andrew asked, eyes lifting in surprise and smile growing in flattery.  “I didn’t expect that. You didn’t have to.” 

Fletcher shrugged and sat back down after having handed off the no-fuss, unwrapped, flat box, crossing one leg over the other casually.  “I know I didn’t have to.”

He let the excitement get the best of him and took the top off the box.  A Charlie Parker record in it’s original sleeve, now faded from age, sat in it.  He picked it up. “Yardbird! Sweet!” He grinned and wiped his hands nervously on his pants before gently picking it up, not wanting to damage it since it was very clearly vintage and potentially fragile.  A black line on it drew his eye and he looked to the top right corner of it, quickly removing his thumb to uncover what was written there. “Holy shit, are you serious? A signed record! How the hell did you get this?!”  He asked, excitement growing considerably. Charlie Parker autographs were both rare and incredibly expensive. To have found one in such good condition was rarer still. 

“I know people.”  Fletcher answered, leaning his face into his hand, covering his mouth conveniently to hide what was at least a slight smile.  “We’ll need to find a frame for it. You don’t want to leave that exposed to too much, or handle it often.” 

He carefully put it back down into the box.  “I literally can’t imagine any gift I would appreciate more.”  He said, stumbling over his word. “I...thanks.” His inability to express his gratitude in a way that would be sincere enough but also not overwhelmingly emotional frustrated him.  Fletcher wouldn’t appreciate a hug of thanks like was common when exchanging gifts in his family. He couldn’t put his thanks into words the way he wanted to. “I can’t believe you got me this.”  He shook his head, smile refusing to leave his face and eyes refusing to leave the record. “Where will we put it? The bedroom? Downstairs in the basement with the kit? Above the piano would work too, and then it would be right out in the living room where we could both see it more, but if it was in front of the kit I’d see it while I was practicing, and-”

“Andrew,”  Fletcher called his attention.  “Anywhere is fine.” He rolled his eyes as he shifted in his seat.  “And you’re welcome.” 

“Thank you.”  He said again, calming down.  “Oh!” He sat it carefully on the coffee table and got up, remembering that he had an intention also.  “I got you something too. I mean, it’s not as cool as what you got me, but it’s...you know, I wanted to get you something.”  He went to the back of the tree and removed a small box he had hidden in the folds of the tree skirt, carrying it over to Fletcher and holding it out. 

Fletcher seemed to be blindsided by the idea that Andrew had gotten him something too, as though he didn’t expect anyone to ever want to give him any more than he already demanded.  “You...” He took it gingerly and touched the paper, examining it, clearly amused by the slapdash wrapping job. “Where did you even get money to buy me a gift?” He asked.

“What are savings accounts for?”  He replied with guarded chuckle, standing anxiously by his side rather than sitting back down. 

Fletcher glanced up at him and then gently undid the wrapping, not ripping the paper in doing so, a stark contrast to how quickly and awkwardly Andrew had wrapped it earlier in the week when he had picked it up from the jewelers.  The dark mahogany box fit in the palm of the man’s hand, and he held it out, looking it over and admiring it’s quality before opening the golden clasp and revealing the contents. A gold watch, gleaming in the low light in the room.  The face was cream colored, the numbers etched in deep green that matched the interior lining of the box almost perfectly. He removed it from the box and examined it, setting the time correctly on it like instinct. 

“It’s...turn it over.  Look.” He got impatient and reached down, turning it over to show him the engraving on the bottom.

“Play like you think.”  He read aloud, corner of his lip turning up just slightly.  

“It’s a-” 

“Basie quote.”  Fletcher finished.  “I know.” He looked at it for another moment before removing the silver watch he was wearing and putting the new one on.  “You didn’t have to put this much money into a gift for me.” 

Andrew smiled, satisfied enough with his reaction, knowing that this was Fletcher being exceedingly pleased.  “Yeah.” He sat down in the chair next to him and picked up his glass off the coffee table before leaning back and relaxing, sipping it slowly and hiding his smile behind it.  “I know I didn’t have to.”

* * *

 

Andrew’s personal standard of excellence had exceeded most.  How could he top this? How could he top that? He was constantly striving to outdo himself, and there was only so long that he could accomplish that.  He couldn’t let himself hit a plateau, not when Fletcher expected him to keep impressing him, not when Lincoln Center was his destination. Adderall alone ceased to be alone to give him the adrenaline high he had to have to keep propelling himself forward and upward.  He got to where he was washing it down with a quad shot of espresso, never allowing himself to spend any length of time without bettering his skill. 

Cam complained constantly about how Fletcher didn’t give her the time of day.  “I mean, I practice at least ten hours a week outside of rehearsal. I know the music!  I could play it with my eyes closed. Ugh. I’m never going to make core.” 

Andrew fought the urge to agree with her when she said things like that.  Truth is truth, though, and the truth was that she had talent but no dedication and no passion.  She played all the right notes. She followed all the cues. Forte, mezzo piano, crescendo, decrescendo, etc.  She had it all down. But she didn’t care about the music, she only cared about being right, and that made her less compelling.  

Spring semester sped past, and so did he.  He started insisting that Fletcher let him out of the car on the street corner, rather than parking with himr.  Paranoia kept him on his toes. The last thing he could handle was getting kicked out of Shaffer for having an affair with his director.  The dean still gave Fletcher looks and lurked around Fletcher’s classroom more than usual, but the fact remained that she had no proof that anything against policy was going on.  She couldn’t make a claim beyond them being especially close for a student and instructor. 

When summer came, not having rehearsals made him want to pull his hair out.  He needed structure. He needed productivity. He needed improvement. So he started composing.  He spent most of his time down in the basement with as many instruments he could get his hands on, learning each one to a basic level, using each one to write parts.  He didn’t talk about it with Fletcher, worried his stuff was shit and not ready for critiques on something new. 

Fletcher went out of town for a conference, leaving Andrew to spend a weekend completely alone for the first time since he had moved it.  He was surprised to return to find Andrew playing tunes on the piano fairly fluently. 

“I didn’t know you played piano.”  Fletcher said, setting his suitcase down in the living room doorway.  

Andrew shrugged and looked up.  “Well I didn’t, but I played marimbas once in high school band.  Similar concept. I figured it out.” 

Fletcher raised his eyebrows.  “You taught yourself to play Ellington in less than forty eight hours?”  

Andrew blinked.  “It’s been forty eight hours since you left?”  

His pace was that of an adrenaline junkie, and maybe he was one to a certain degree.  He craved more, something to fill the time, something to keep him from thinking, something to keep him improving.

Time was elusive, and before he knew it, he was starting his second to last semester at Shaffer.   

* * *

 

Fletcher let out a long sigh and looked at the clock on the wall of the classroom.  “Okay, that’s it.” He muttered, looking out across the room of students, most of which he didn’t even know by name.  “Get lost.” 

“There’s twenty minutes left.”  A saxophonist who had been in his band for two years now chimed in.  

“Yeah, consider yourselves lucky.  Early dismissal.” He made his way back to his office a bit slowly and sat down heavily in his chair, running a hand over his face and groaning.  He’d had this damn headache for nearly four days straight now. After ten years of not getting ill, he was completely unequipped to deal with it. That must be what it was.  He was getting a cold; it would explain why he had been sore and achy, and why he couldn’t shake this headache and fatigue. Maybe it was time to get over his pride and head to the doctors for antibiotics or whatever.  

“What the hell was all that about?”  Andrew asked humorously, walking into his office after the classroom had cleared out.  “When have you ever ended a rehearsal early?” 

“When I’m fed up with dealing with it.”  He said in retort, hand over his closed eyes.  

“Are you feeling okay?”  The kid asked, coming further into the office.  

Fletcher pulled his hand away and opened his eyes reluctantly, squinting against the light.  “I’m fine. Tired, I guess. I only had the one cup of coffee today.” 

Andrew nodded, though he looked a little disbelieving.  “Well let’s go home. I’ll make a fresh pot.”

* * *

 

Andrew woke up, vaguely remembering that it was his birthday, and then forgetting again.  What did it matter that he was a year older? The prior year he turned twenty one. That was something, if only in that it meant he could buy his own alcohol then.  There was nothing special as twenty two. He stretched and groaned, sitting up and seeing that Fletcher was already away, walking out of the bathroom with his towel around his waist as though he actually had any humility whatsoever.  “Already did your morning workout?” He called, rubbing his eyes.

“Skipping it.”  Came Fletcher’s curt reply.  

Andrew pulled an expression of confusion.  He never skipped his morning routine, but for a week or so now, he had.  

But at least  Fletcher didn’t remember his birthday. Why should he?  He supposed it was for the best since he didn’t really feel like celebrating or calling any attention to it anyway.  That said, it stung just a bit. 

Once he had gotten up and washed his face, he had rather expected to just get dressed and make breakfast.  Instead, he was stopped as he rounded the corner out of the bathroom by Fletcher pressing him against the wall.  He looked at him questioningly. “What?” He asked, clearing his throat.

“Oh, nothing.”  Fletcher responded with a smirk.  “Just feeling like I might like to fuck you this morning.”  

Andrew smiled and lifted an eyebrow in confusion.  Fletcher never asked for sex anymore. It just happened like routine.  They never had sex in the morning, and not usually when sober either. “Why are you being weird?”  

Fletcher shrugged, still only wearing the towel.  “What, you don’t want to have sex?” He asked, stepping back away from him and putting his hands on his bare hips.  “That’s a first. I usually get you begging for it.” 

“No, I mean,”  He stepped towards him again.  “I do want to. I was just surprised you wanted to now, that’s all.  It’s a little unusual, right? This time of day?”

Fletcher smiled and let the towel drop to the floor.  

* * *

 

“Fuck.”  Andrew draped his arm across his eyes, still laying across the bed, nude.  Fletcher on the other hand, got up, got dressed, and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth.  After a while, he stuck his head back out. “Get up and get dressed. I want to go get breakfast.”  

Andrew groaned and forced himself to climb out of bed, still dazed and dizzy, riding the post-orgasm haze.  This morning had already been so delightfully overwhelming and now he was supposed to go out for breakfast? 

He pulled a clean shirt and pair of slacks out of the closet.  “Where do you want to go?” 

“The french place on Ocean avenue?”  He suggested first. That was his favorite place to get breakfast, and wasn’t far away.  “Or,” he walked out of the bathroom and took his jacket from the hanger. “We could go to Greene’s.”  

“Really?”  He asked, feeling himself smile as he followed him downstairs.  “It’s so out of the way, and I thought you didn’t even like Greene’s.”  The only time they had ever gone there together, Fletcher had only been coerced to eat two latkes, and seemed put off by the greasy food in general.   

Fletcher shrugged.  “Guess I’m just in the mood for shitty burnt coffee and grease.”  He answered, taking his hat off the coat rack by the door. 

Andrew pulled a face and slid his feet into his shoes.  Why the hell was he acting so weird? 

They walked out the front door, and Andrew’s eyes widened at the sight of the car parked on the curb, directly in front of the house.  The most beautiful, perfect, exactly his dream car he had ever seen in his life. “Holy shit that’s a sweet car. A powder blue 1990 Firebird?”  He muttered. “Who the fuck parks a car like that on the street?” He descended the steps on the front stoop and peered inside at the spotless interior.  “Brown leather seats and everything. I wonder who’s this is. Maybe somebody moved in nearby.” 

Fletcher looked around and sighed.  “Damn. I forgot, I had to park my car a few blocks away yesterday.”  He shrugged and locked the door behind him as he advanced down the steps.  “Want to just take yours?” 

Andrew whipped around just in time to catch the set of keys Fletcher tossed at him.  His eyes widened as he looked between the key in his hand with the Pontiac emblem and the car.  “You...You’re joking.” He looked back up at him, mouth having gone dry as he connected the dots.  “You can’t be serious, right?” 

Fletcher tilted his head and pulled the handle on the passenger side, smiling as he slid into the seat with a grunt. “What, three years and you really think I didn’t remember?” 

Moving from the street to the driver’s seat of the car was a blur, head swimming with elation and shock.  He glanced to his right, meeting the ever smug eyes he’d grown so fond of. “I can’t believe you did this.”  

Fletcher let out a breath of laughter.  “Yeah. Don’t fucking crash it, you trainwreck.”

* * *

 

“What tie should I wear on Saturday?”  Andrew asked, looking over his small collection of them and coming up short for anything he felt drawn to. 

Fletcher glanced over his shoulder into the drawer while buckling his belt.  “The paisley one.” He answered. 

Andrew frowned.  “Didn’t I wear that to the gala last year?”  

Fletcher scoffed and walked back into the closet for his shirt.  “Oh, yeah. You’re right. Everyone there remembers what tie you were wearing.  You’ll be absolutely scandalized if you wear it again this year.” 

He rolled his eyes.  “Can’t I just go out and find a new one?”  

“I don’t know.”  Came Fletcher’s reply from the closet.  He stuck his head back out around the doorframe. “Can you?  I mean, your taste isn’t horrifically tacky?” 

Andrew huffed defensively.  “Come on, you like this one!  How can you think I have bad taste?” He asked, gesturing to the paisley one.  

Fletcher stepped back out, shirt on but unbuttoned.  “Mhm.” He nodded, crossing his arms. “You picked that out, did you?”  

He made to answer in the affirmative, but Fletcher’s raised eyebrow stopped him and he sighed.  “No. I’ll ask the sales clerk for help.” 

Fletcher smiled and nodded.  “Right.” He buttoned his shirt and tucked it in.  “Go to the same place we went for your suit. They have a fantastic selection, and my card on file.”

* * *

 

“Great tie, by the way.”  Fletcher said quietly as they walked through the door the night of the event.  

Andrew smirked and side eyed him as the noise of the room roared in his ears.  “Yeah, the clerk said it was my color. Interesting how it’s the same color as your tie, just in a different design.  You didn’t happen to give them a call before I got there, did you?” 

Fletcher took a glass of champagne from the tray of a waiter who was walking past without him noticing and then rolled his eyes.  “Oh please, as if we were going to show up without coordinating our outfits.” 

They came to a stop by the bar, people hustling and bustling around them.  “You’re right. Everyone is looking at our ties. They’ll never forget the moment they first see them for as long as they live.”  He winced as a man walked by coughing and hacking violently. “Yikes, which for  _ some  _ of them, won’t be much longer.”  He murmured, earning a snort from Fletcher.  Andrew looked over Fletcher’s shoulder and grimaced as he saw the man approaching them.  “Oh jeez. Jerry Seldan in three...two...o-”

“Terence!”  Seldan shouted buoyantly.  

“One.”  He whispered with a smug grin as he watched Fletcher’s face turn a special shade of green reserved for only his least favorite interactions.  

The man turned on his heel and faced Seldan.  “Hello, Jerome.” He gritted out.

“How long has it been?”  Andrew whispered, facing down at the floor to hide his amusement.  

“How long has it been?!”  Seldan asked. 

Fletcher smiled tightly and hummed.  “About a year. Considering that the last place I saw you was-” 

“How much longer has your ward got at the old asylum, hm?”  He interrupted with a laugh. “Almost done at Shaffer, huh Andrew?”    
Andrew looked up and nodded.  “Oh, yeah.” He said with a smile, though it was very poorly containing his amusement.  “Just one semester left, really.” 

The man leaned back and chuckled.  “Glad to get away from this old crackpot, eh?”  

Andrew glanced over at Fletcher and the growing sneer on his face.  “Yeah. Yeah, I can’t stand the guy. Drives me nuts. I’m just itching to get as far away from him as possible.”  He said sarcastically, taking a half step closer to him in contrast. 

Fletcher looked his way and gave him a phony smile.  “How sweet of you to say.” He handed him his glass. “Hold this for me please.”  He turned to Seldan. “I apologize, but I’m going to excuse myself to the restroom.”  

Andrew rolled his eyes as he watched him walk away, knowing he was only leaving to get away from the guy. 

“He’s getting on up there, hm?”  

“What?” Andrew asked.

Seldan shrugged.  “I mean, how old is he now?  Sixty seven? Sixty eight, right?”  

Andrew thought about it and tried to remember how old Fletcher had turned that September.  “Yeah, I guess he is sixty eight now.” He nodded.

“His age is starting to show.”  He said. “I’ve never seen him with so little pep in his step.”  

Andrew sipped his scotch and snorted.  “I wouldn’t say there’s a whole lot of  _ pep _ in anything Fletcher does.  He’s not exactly a  _ peppy  _ kind of guy.”  

Seldan hummed, turning to the bartender and ordering a glass of wine.  “You know what I mean, though.” He picked the glass up off the bar. “He’s walking slower, standing with a slouch, favoring his right knee, the whole shebang.  The guy’s starting to feel it.” 

Andrew frowned.  He hadn’t noticed much different with Fletcher.  Well, sure he had been ending rehearsals early every now and again.  That was different. He seemed more tired lately, needing more coffee to keep himself alert and going to bed much earlier than he used to.  He had seemed to be eating considerably less too. But that hadn’t been happening for long. He was probably just feeling under the weather, that’s all.  He wasn’t  _ showing his age. _

At some point, Seldan had walked away and Fletcher returned.  They made their rounds, talking to everyone only as much as they had to, mocking people now and again when nobody was near them, and grazing the refreshments.

“Jesus, when is the damn performance going to start?”  Fletcher huffed under his breath with a wince, shifting from one foot to the other.  “Can’t just stand around here all night.”

Andrew looked him up and down in concern.  Maybe Seldan was right. “Do...Do you want to go sit down?  There are some chairs by the entrance.” 

Fletcher glanced over and squinted at him.  “What?” 

“What do you mean?”  

“I’m fine, Andrew.”  He insisted. “I’m just antsy.  Sick of all these people.” 

“Okay, I’m sorry.”  He defended, finishing off his drink and setting the glass on a waiter’s empty tray as he walked past them.  He caught the judgmental gaze of quite a few throughout the evening, but did his best to pay it no mind.

* * *

 

Andrew stood behind the curtain of the stage, preparing himself to have to walk out, accept his diploma, and make a fucking speech.  Someone had nominated him to make a speech, and he couldn’t imagine who would want to nominate him and also know him little enough to think that was a good idea.  He had never been good with words, or speaking in front of large groups of people, and while this graduation ceremony wasn’t as big as some, it was still intimidating. 

The line moved up and names continued to be called out, all the way up to the ‘L’s.  He swallowed nervously, and when his name was called, carefully walked across the stage and somehow managed to avoid tripping over the stupid robe.  While the rest of the students moved to the reserved seats at the front of the auditorium, he was told to stay in the wings of the stage and wait to be called out by the dean to make his speech.  She, along with two professors including Fletcher sat in seats on the stage, all of them with speeches of their own to say, while the president of the school continued calling out names and shaking hands.  

He tried to catch Fletcher’s eye, but the man just looked straight out at the audience as the procession continued.  

When it finally ended, the dean walked up to the microphone while the president took a seat.  She cleared her throat and straightened her blazer. “Thank you to everyone for your attention, and congratulations to all of our graduates!”   A mild cheer from the audience of mostly parents and grandparents filled the space between her words. “I’ve had the opportunity to work closely with these students, some more than others.  My first year as the dean was their first year at Shaffer. I couldn’t feel more nostalgic to see them go.” She went on and on, dragging the speech out, filling the auditorium with totally meaningless babble.  No wonder people hated sitting through graduation speeches. Jesus, he was going to be just as bad.  _ Look at all those people, they’re practically drooling in boredom.   _

She called his name and he blocked out the sound of applause as he made his way out onto the stage, his heartbeat resounding in his head.  He shook the dean’s hand, and she gave him a very forced smile before taking her seat next to Fletcher. He glanced behind him at everyone sitting there, seeing her and Fletcher meet eyes briefly and hostilely.  When Fletcher met his eyes, he swallowed and turned back around towards the audience and his peers.

After a taking a shaky breath, he began with his rehearsed and memorized speech.  “When I first began at Shaffer,” he was interrupted by mic feedback, drew away and waited for it to quiet before continuing.  “Um...When I first began at Shaffer, I was...not good.” The audience chuckled and he felt himself smile at the positive reaction.  “No, really. I’m not even just being humble when I say that. I was a mess.” More laughter. Thank god. “I was always late, both for class and for my cues.  Tempo was my biggest struggle. For some instruments, that’s not as huge a deal but as a drummer...” he pulled a wince. “You know, it’s very important for the rhythm section to have rhythm.”  He could even hear a few chuckles from behind him. “I was headstrong and foolish, and while music was the most important thing in my life, I wasn’t and will never be the most important thing in music.”  He took a deep breath to collect himself, voice shaking just a touch. It felt like this was going twice as fast onstage as it did at home. “I may still be headstrong and foolish, but after these four years, I can confidently say that I have grown more as a musician than I ever dreamed I could.  I want to thank each and every member of the faculty, and specifically...um...specifically Dr. Fletcher who has been my mentor throughout my education, and an important... albeit abrasive pillar in my life.” He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “Although let’s face it, he’s...hard to handle.”  His peers in the front rows of the auditorium laughed loudest at that, vocalizing their agreement heartily. “That said, without him I would have dropped out in my first year.” He glanced behind him and felt comforted by the slight, barely perceivable smile on Fletcher’s face. 

“ I’m not good at handling change,” He continued.  “I never have been. The years I have spent at Shaffer have been some of the most formative of my life and it’s hard to imagine moving on from it, or how I’m going to manage living any other way.  But Buddy Rich once said ‘I liked every band I ever played in because each band was different. Each band had a different concept and each band leader was different.’ The whole idea of jazz is the freedom that comes from creativity, the flow of your own inspiration melded with the vision of every single person you play with.  Adjusting and adapting is what this artform is built on.” His nervousness and nostalgia were catching up with him. He needed to wrap this up quickly if he was going to get through it without embarrassing himself. “Anyway, I’m incredibly proud to have spent my past four years here at Shaffer, and I’m equally excited to experience the next chapter, different as it may be.  Uh, thank you.” He stepped back, letting out a sigh of relief as the audience applauded sincerely. 

He made his way offstage as Fletcher stood, heading up to make his speech as the director of the top band.  He adjusted the mic and looked out at the audience for a moment with a smirk. He turned his head to look at Andrew, still standing in the wings.  “Hard to handle, huh?” 

It was probably the first time any of those students laughed at something Fletcher had said.

* * *

 

“What do I wear?”  Andrew asked nervously.  “Like, what do you think everyone else will be wearing?  I mean it’s just a rehearsal, but it’s rehearsal in a pro band.  Is it different?” 

Fletcher, sitting in bed with a book, rolled his eyes.  “It’s not different. Wear whatever you want.” He insisted, setting his book down open-faced on the mattress.  “You’re just going to go in, introduced yourself, sit down at the kit, and then probably make a fool out of yourself.”  

Andrew paused and crossed his arms.  “Oh I’m gonna make a fool of myself?”  

“It’s what you’re best at.”  

Andrew scoffed and went back to looking through his things.  Tee shirt or button down? Slacks or jeans? Tucked or untucked?  He huffed and whipped back around. “Well what would you wear?”

Fletcher groaned and stood up, making his way around the bed to the closet, pulling out a pair of black slacks, belt, and a white tee shirt.  “Here. Untucked. Simple and professional, but casual enough that you don’t look like you’re trying too hard. Black dress shoes, not converse.”  

Andrew smiled and took the hangers from his hands, pleased that nagging him enough had actually resulted in exactly what he wanted; Fletcher picking out his outfit.  “Thank you.” He said smugly. 

“Have you talked to Marsalis?”  

“Yeah.”  Andrew responded as he got dressed.  “Rehearsal starts at ten and I’m supposed to stay after to sign some paperwork and stuff and add my number to the group text list.”  He looked himself over in the mirror, pushing his hair back and adjusting his clothes.

Fletcher nodded.  “All figured out. What time will you be home?”

“Probably like eight o’clock.  It’s all the way midtown, and lasts until five.  I figure I’ll spend an hour and a half after rehearsal, and then I have to take two trains to get back here, right during rush hour.” 

“Jeez, my last rehearsal lets out at four on mondays. Even I’ll be home before you.”  Fletcher hummed, getting dressed himself. “Want me to drive you? We can stop and get coffee on the way.”  

Andrew shrugged.  “I have some iced coffee downstairs I was going to drink, and I got up early enough to take the train, so I guess I may as well.” 

“Ah.”  Fletcher.  “Okay, well I’m heading out then.”  He grabbed his bag from beside the dresser.  “Hope it goes well.”

* * *

 

Andrew hesitantly walked onto the stage where a group of musicians were sitting.  He was a minute or so late and absolutely mortified that he was. His first day with Lincoln Center.  He didn’t really know anyone. They’d passed each other at galas and events and he knew of them, but he had never spoken to anyone. 

“Hey, Andrew.”  Marsalis said pleasantly as he walked out onto the stage.  “Come on in.” He looked out across the band. “Everybody, this is Andrew.   He’s our new drummer, just graduated from Shaffer and we all know what that means.”  

Quite a few of the players visibly winced and he lifted his eyebrows.  

“That’s right, he’s coming out of Dr. Fletcher’s band.  So everybody go easy on him.”

He smiled sympathetically towards him.  “We all know what kind of hell he must have been through.  Make him feel welcome here.”

* * *

 

Fletcher walked in through the back of the auditorium after posting a “Rehearsal Cancelled” sign on his classroom door and heading to Lincoln Centre.  Curiosity got the best of him and he was compelled to look in on the rehearsal. He slipped in quietly, and went to sit in the darkened back portion, looking out over a sea of empty seats leading up to the stage where Andrew sat at the kit.  

The band played on for a bit before he noticed Andrew rushing and felt that old familiar irritation but without the ability to actually correct him himself.  Marsalis didn’t cut off.  _ Why the fuck isn’t he giving a cutoff?  Andrew is rushing by at least five clicks. _

They finished the song and by the end of it he was positively red in the face with the restraint, unfamiliar with Andrew being wrong and not being able to correct him.  It was absolutely impossible for Marsalis not to have noticed that. Any musician worth his salt would have noticed that, let alone Wynton fucking Marsalis. 

“Alright.”  Came the man’s voice, which was quiet when you were standing just next to him and quieter still when you were all the way across the auditorium from him.  “That wasn’t bad. First run.” He glanced through the sheet music. “Andrew, bud, you were rushing just a hair. About six clicks fast, okay? Watch me a little closer once you’re more comfortable with the piece.”  

He could see Andrew straighten up, his eyes wide and body rigid.  “Yes sir. I’m sorry, I’ll pay more attention. I’m sorry.” He was flushed in embarrassment, and Fletcher could only imagine just how embarrassed he was that he had rushed in the very first run of the very first piece on his very first day.  

Marsalis held his hand up.  “It’s fine, Andrew. Really.  This isn’t Shaffer, okay? We’re all learning this piece, and it’s okay to make a mistake once in while.”

The confusion that replaced embarrassment on his face was like a beacon of light flashing at Fletcher in particular, despite the fact that Andrew didn’t know he was there.   _ You messed him up.  You messed this kid up so bad.  He can’t even fathom the idea of someone not being furious at him over a mistake.  Look at what you did to him.  _


	17. Seventeenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the pivot point. Prepare yourself for a tearful chapter. I'm sorry to everyone, but trust me, the story pans out with at least a bittersweet ending. About five chapters left, and then an epilogue. You will have closure. I love you. Be strong. You can do this.

Andrew unlocked the door around 7:45 and walked in, shutting out the humid August  air behind him and hanging his bag on the coat rack. “Home.” He called into the house. 

“Kitchen.”  Fletcher called back.  

The lights in the rest of the house were down, curtains open, the hallway and living

room bathed in dusty light from the setting sun.  He stuck his head into the kitchen. “What are you doing?”  

Fletcher huffed, hands and forearms wet and suds covering a large portion of the sink and counter.  “Dishes. You didn’t do them this morning.” 

“Sorry.  I didn’t have time before rehearsal.”  Andrew said, stepping in fully and leaning against the counter, recoiling from it when it dampened his shirt.  “You’re making more of a mess than you’re cleaning up.” He chuckled.

Fletcher rolled his eyes and tossed the sponge into the sink before drying his hands on the towel.  “Well how was rehearsal?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Everything you dreamed?” 

“Eh.”  He shrugged and grabbed the dish towel to dry off the countertop.  “It was great, but it was a lot less intense than I guess I expected.  Marsalis was very laid back.” 

Fletcher nodded.  “Got your music?” 

“Yeah.  It’s a great setlist.  We’re doing Nuttville.”  Andrew replied. “Although I’m  not sure if I’ll be able to do Buddy Rich justice.” 

He stepped out of the kitchen.  “You’ll just have to practice I guess.”  Fletcher started up the stairs, glancing at Andrew who had followed over his shoulder.  “Joining me?” 

“For what?”  

“Sex.”  He answered.  

Andrew suppressed a yawn and blinked up at him.  “I’m really tired right now. Maybe tomorrow?” 

Fletcher shrugged.  “You have rehearsal again tomorrow.” 

Andrew hesitated and then conceded, knowing that if he was tired tonight, he wouldn’t be any less tired the following.  “Okay, yeah. Let me just have a drink or two.” 

Fletcher nodded and retreated up the stairs while Andrew walked to the bar cart and made himself a double rum and coke.  He walked to the window, putting his free hand in his pocket and holding the glass with the other, looking out the window as the light was getting low.  His meeting with Marsalis after rehearsal had been interesting to say the least. 

The man was as breezy and relaxed one-on-one as he was in rehearsal.  Andrew signed the contract, gave him his measurements for his Brooks Brothers suit, as was the uniform for their performances.  “So, you think you’re going to fit in?” 

“I guess so.”  Andrew answered.  “It’s a lot more relaxed that Shaffer was.”  

Marsalis nodded.  “I can imagine. I’ve known Fletcher for a long time and he’s never been the kind to take it easy.”  

Andrew shrugged, feeling the strange need to be defensive.  “He can be at times. It’s just rehearsal is...not one of those times.”   

Marsalis nodded and took his seat at his desk, much smaller and lighter in color than Fletcher’s, in an office that was washed in natural light from a window.  On the walls hung photographs of him and his family, his bands, his friends, smiling faces everywhere. “Well rest assured that things will be very different here.  Of course there will still be pressure, but I like to think I handle it with a very different approach. Don’t be afraid to approach me or any of the other player’s with any questions or concerns you may have, alright?”

That alone was like a breath of fresh air.  Sure, he and Fletcher were close and had gotten to a place where Andrew wasn’t terrified to ask him things, but he still knew better than to complain to him or bother him much regarding the band.  Marsalis was the easy-going but successful director he didn’t imagine could exist. It didn’t set well with him how much the man seemed to dislike Fletcher, but it was understandable all the same; most people didn’t, and for good reason.  

Well, his drink was gone and so was a half hour of time that he’d spent staring out the window, trying to make sense of this new world he was being thrust into.  He rinsed it out in the kitchen sink, dried it, and carried it back to where it came from. He was still tired, even more if anything, but it had been a while since they’d had sex, and who knew when they’d both feel like it again?  

He climbed the stairs on autopilot, so used to climbing them now that it was as comfortable and familiar as walking on flat ground.  While his hands undid his belt lazily, his feet carried him into the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway and smiled just slightly when his eyes landed on Fletcher lying there, asleep.  Well that was that. 

He undressed to his boxers and laid down next to him, letting out a sigh.  For a laid back day it sure took a lot out of him. Maybe that was just the change.

* * *

 

Fletcher was struggling to adjust to this new pace.  He didn’t want to say he was reliant on Andrew’s presence, but maybe he was, just a touch.  Rehearsal felt empty now, and he didn’t even have the urge to yell at these kids. He found himself strangely content with mediocrity from them.  

He had built his career as a director around finding his ‘Charlie Parker’ and forcing them to realize the greatness they could be.  His drive had been in pushing his band beyond the limits they had set for themselves individually until he found the one player who was capable of achieving that excellence he so desperately wanted to discover.  Maybe now that he had found Andrew, cultivated him, pushed him, and seen him come to fruition, he had lost the motivation to be a director. Maybe he had lost the ability to care about any of these kids.  It didn’t help that he still felt tired consistently. 

“Dr. Fletcher, I was wondering if I could go over this chart with you.”  

He looked up from his desk to be met with the mop of blonde hair that was Cam, now the core drummer in the absence of Andrew.  “What?” 

She held the paper out to him.  “I’m having trouble with getting the tempo up to speed in measures eighteen through thirty six and I was wondering if you’d work with me on it.  I’ve tried doing it on my own with a metronome, but I don’t feel like that’s helping because of course I can play it with a metronome, but the idea is I want to get into the habit of playing it fast and I think if you were to go over it with me and listen to me play and run it with me a few times I might feel more motivated and inspired to-”

_ Jesus Christ, she talks a mile a second.  What do they put in the water at this school?   _ “I’m actually busy right now.  Why don’t you run it with the rest of the rhythm section down in the practice rooms?”  

“Oh, okay!  That’s a good idea.  Thanks. I don’t know why I never thought to do that before.  I mean, Jeremy and I have talked about practicing together before but I never thought about having a whole sectional with him and Mack down in the practice rooms.”  She blabbered on, still talking as she stepped out the door, still talking when he closed it heavily behind her.

* * *

 

Fletcher’s hands on his hips felt gentler than usual as he slowly moved in and out of him.  Andrew let his eyes fall shut and his head rest on the bed, short of breath and craving more, like always.  

“Harder.”  He whispered. 

Fletcher responded by slapping him in the face, not as hard as he sometimes did.  The man was far more winded than he, grunting as he picked up his pace. 

Andrew reached for his own cock and was surprised when his hand wasn’t slapped away.  

Fletcher met his eyes.  “Go ahead.” He said between pants.

Andrew blinked in confusion, but quickly obliged, not about to deny his own ability to finish.  He pumped his hand slowly, in time with Fletcher’s thrusts, and then picked up speed himself. When he came, it was with a shuddering sigh rather than a moan and he went still soon after, catching his breath.  Fletcher stopped as soon as he was done and he raised his eyebrows. “Did you-”

“I’m fine.”  He responded before Andrew got a chance to finish asking the question.  “Good enough without an orgasm.” He walked into the bathroom and closed the door.  Moments later, he heard the shower running.

His eyebrows lowered, not understanding.  When had he ever stopped before finishing?  They had never not both finished during sex.  He got up and dressed. He supposed it wasn’t that strange.  They’d both been busy for the past few weeks since Andrew began with Lincoln Center, and spending a lot more time away from one another, and they were both generally too tired for much when they both got home.  Well, Fletcher was more tired than he was, but that wasn’t strange either; Andrew practically inhaled stimulants, and he was so much younger. 

Fletcher emerged from the bathroom, having spent barely any time in the shower whatsoever.  He walked by Andrew as he was about to put his shirt on. “You’re looking good, by the way.”

“Yeah?”  Andrew asked with a grin.  “Thinning out a little bit?”  

“Very lean.”  He responded, running his hand over Andrew’s midsection which had once been pudgy, but was now almost completely flat, tight and toned. 

* * *

“That’s a wrap, folks.”  Marsalis said after the cutoff.  “Who feels ready for tomorrow’s concert?”  A quiet but collective cheer arose from the players as they began packing up their instruments and music.  “Great. Five o’clock sharp. Make plans to carpool if you’re worried about being late. Don’t trust public transportation to be on time.”  

The bassist glanced at Andrew as he stood from the kit.  “Need a ride, Neiman?” He asked with a grin. He was about twenty years Andrew’s senior, amber skin, broad shoulders, and the most copper toned eyes he had ever seen.  He had been friendly to him since day one, offering to practice with him outside of rehearsal and bringing him a coffee now and again.

“I think I’ve got one, but I’ll text you if I end up needing one.”  He answered. “Thanks, Ray.” 

“No trouble.”  He replied. “See you tomorrow.”  He waved goodbye. As people started walking offstage, many of them said goodbye to him, and to each other.  For once in his life, the band he was in was a community. It was welcoming. The factor of competition had dissipated just a touch, and while it was nice to be liked and to exist in a welcoming environment, it felt off.  He had lived four years in a cutthroat world, and this was something else entirely. But did he really miss that? Wasn’t it hell? He’d had a few months to adjust to this band and it still felt strangely hollow, like he gained no satisfaction without pounding someone else into the dirt.  But this was what all of that had been for, so why wasn’t he happy with it?

* * *

 

Fletcher pursed his lips and brushed the shoulder of Andrew’s jacket, despite the fact that there was no dust to be seen.  “Not a bad suit.” 

“I should say.”  Andrew answered, smiling at the attention. 

“Let’s get going.”  

Fletcher drove, but they took Andrew’s car at his insistence.  He could have driven himself, but Fletcher was attending the concert anyway, and it would save Andrew time on parking, ensuring that he wouldn’t be late.  Andrew looked out the window as they drove over the bridge. “Ugh, it would rain. Figures. My first concert with Lincoln Center and it’s fucking raining.”  

“So what?  I’m going to let you out at the door.  I’m the one who’s going to get drenched.”  Fletcher rolled his eyes at him. “Stop being such a baby.”  

They drove on in a stretch of silence that lasted them all the way to midtown.  Andrew glanced over at Fletcher and a smile spread on his face. “Can you believe I’m the drummer in Wynton Marsalis’ band?”  He asked. “I’m about to play a concert at Lincoln Center.” 

Fletcher scoffed.  “You’ve played at Carnegie.  What are you nervous about?”

“I’m not nervous.  I’m excited!” He beamed.  “I just can’t believe it. I mean just imagine!  I could be a household name in jazz within the year!  And I’m making my own money now.” Sure he had been in the band for months, but now that he was doing a concert, it’s like the level of achievement was only just now hitting him.  “If I knock ‘em dead at every concert they might do an article on me for the website and emails. At the next gala, I won’t just be your guest. I’ll be Andrew Neiman: core percussionist with Jazz at Lincoln Center.”  

“Well,” He looked over at him as he slowed the car to a stop out in front.  “You gotta knock ‘em dead first, so get going.” 

Andrew smiled and leaned over to press a chaste and thoughtless kiss to his lips before hopping out of the car and making his way inside.

* * *

 

“Let’s have our musicians take a bow, huh folks?”  Marsalis said into the mic, after their performance to which the response was an enthusiastic round of applause from the audience.  In fact, it was an enthusiastic round of applause that had lasted since the last note they played. “Horns!” The trumpets and trombones stood and bowed while the audience cheered.  “Reeds!” The saxophones, alto and tenor, did the same. “Keys!” The pianist stood and took his bow as well. “Bass!” Ray bowed just as proudly. “And let’s hear it for our newest player, rhythm from Andrew Neiman!” He stood and was startled at the increase in volume from the audience when he took his bow. 

After Marsalis had said a few closing words, they all stood together and made their way offstage.  A few of his peers congratulated him on a great performance as they made their way back to the storage room where their cases and bags were.  

“Mr. Neiman!”  Called a young woman behind him.  She was tall, only shorter than him by a couple inches in the heels she was wearing.   Her attire was professional but incredibly flattering, black skirt hugging her hips, white button down curving in with her waist, blazer doing little to conceal any of this unbuttoned as it was.  

“Yes?”  He asked, taken aback by the fact that she had called out to him so suddenly down the hallway. 

She smiled and extended her hand to him.  “Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Elizabeth Dorsey and I write for  _ The Score,  _ our news here at Lincoln Center.”  

He shook her hand tentatively and nodded.  “Oh, it’s um...nice to meet you too.” 

“I was wondering if you might be interested in doing an interview with me.”  She replied softly. “The crowd was very impressed with you tonight and I’m sure our readers would love an inside scoop on what it’s like transitioning from being a student at the top jazz school in the nation to being a core member of Jazz at Lincoln Center.”  

Andrew’s eyes widened and he inhaled deeply before nodded.  “Yeah, absolutely. I would...I...yeah, let’s do that. I’m definitely cool with that.”

* * *

 

Fletcher woke up with a start, a pounding pain in his head being the force which pulled him aggressively from sleep.  He glanced next to him, relieved to find that Andrew was still fast fucking asleep, mouth wide open and drooling, snoring, covered in sweat.  He looked like a visual representation of  _ morning breath _ , just like he always did first thing in the morning.  He felt a smile creep across his face, but replaced it with a scowl as soon as he noticed it.  

He felt off.  He’d been feeling off for a while now, but ignoring it and assuming it would go away, just like anything, on it’s own.  But now, having woken up from pain, lying here feeling as though he couldn’t move for the soreness in his muscles and the stiffness in his joints, he realized there was an explanation, and an easy one at that.  It crashed into him like a wave against the shore. He was getting old. Scratch that, he was old. He’d been old for a while, and now he was starting to feel it. 

He had stopped working out daily at some point, telling himself that he’d start again once he felt well again, but that was months ago.  He had to pull out his reading glasses twice as much as before. He only ate half his meals, consistently, had lost weight in muscle mass, he was exhausted by six o’clock every evening, only managing to stay awake as long as Andrew most nights on sheer ego.  He was trying to prove to himself as much as to the kid that he was just as lively as ever. He struggled to get in and out of chairs, the bed, the bathtub, the car, fuck! How had all of this happened over the course of a year without him realizing?

Andrew stirred next to him, turning from his side to his back.  Discomfort stirred in his stomach as he stared at his sleeping form.  Andrew was in his early twenties. He was a third of his age. By the time Andrew was his age, he’d be dead.  Hell, he could be dead in the next fucking year! 

He tried to imagine Andrew handling it well.  He would put on his black suit with a black shirt and tie, stand in front of the mirror and tell himself he was okay and he could handle it.  He’d drive his car to the funeral and try to keep it together, sit in the front row among a bunch of conflicted professors and ex students who had hated his guts when he was alive.  He’d try not to cry but breakdown anyway, probably after the ceremony, in the bathroom, break his hand punching the wall like the drama queen that he was. He would stay in the house, redecorate just a tad to get the feel of him out, sleep in the other bedroom, meet some nice, smart, age appropriate musician, get married, raise a family.  His name would only pass his lips in interviews or award acceptance speeches, as a mentor. As a memory. 

_ No.  _ Of course that wasn’t how it would go.  Andrew was nineteen and incredibly naive when Fletcher first corrupted his idea of normality.  They’d been in this thing of theirs for years. The kid didn’t know any other way to be. The longer this went on, the further away Andrew was from ever finding a sense of recovery.  The longer he held onto him, the more he became another  _ Sean Casey,  _ a loss, a regret, a mistake.  That familiar feeling of guilt crept up and he grimaced, sitting up and feeling a wave of nausea wash over him, trying to decide if it was anger or fear or guilt or illness or nerves or some clusterfuck of all of the above.  

Andrew opened his eyes, slowly and peacefully blinking awake and running a hand across his face.  He looked up at him unknowingly and smiled. “Good morning.” 

It was Sunday, and the windows were frosted over.  Andrew must have been laying there thinking about what creative pancake concoction he was going to fix that morning, how many cups of coffee he was going to have, whether or not it was too early to start decorating for Christmas this early in December.  Fletcher allowed himself another moment, looking at him sadly, fondly, hating himself for being so weak and for all the turmoil, internal and external. He took a shaky breath in, then steeled his face, cleared his throat, and looked him in the eyes. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”  

A horrible stretch of silence passed.  Andrew’s smile didn’t fall, but it wavered, eyebrows knitting together in concern or confusion or both.  “What?” 

“I want you to move out by the end of this week.”  Fletcher answered, getting up and going to the closet to get his clothes and get dressed, concealing the fact that this was positively killing him. 

The uncomfortable and disbelieving laugh that Andrew let out was like physical pain.  “What? What the fuck are you talking about ‘you don’t want to see me anymore’? Why?”  Andrew sat up, facing him, legs crossed and blankets tangled around his waist and legs. 

Fletcher reemerged from the closet with a stony expression and an outfit, looking Andrew over and acknowledging this as the last time he would ever see him like this again.  “I mean it’s over, kid. I’m...I’m done.” He shrugged, sounding and looking ten times more confident than he felt. 

Andrew stared at him for a long moment, shock in his eyes that slowly turned into hope.  “You’re joking with me.” He murmured. “This isn't serious. You think it’s funny because you’re fucked in the head and you don’t get what it means to take things too far.” 

Fletcher started buttoning his shirt, breathing despite the tightness in his chest and avoiding Andrew’s eyes. “I’m not joking, Andrew.”  He said, trying to come across as flippant, like he didn’t give a shit rather than like he couldn’t bear to even look at him. He felt bile rising in his throat, disgusted at himself, at the world, at this situation that he found himself; rather, this situation that he had buried himself in.  “Andrew,” he breathed, though he recoiled at the sound of it, feeling it wrong to say his name so gently now. “You can stay in the guest room for the next few days, but I want you and your shit gone by the end of the week.” 

“Why?” 

“I’m just done with you.”  He could almost see the kid’s world shattering in his eyes.  He hesitated, but forced himself to go on. It had to be convincing for Andrew to believe him, for him not to ask those questions he wouldn’t be able to avoid answering.  “I’ve gotten what I wanted from you. There’s really no point keeping you around anymore.”

He looked down as he buttoned his trousers and before he had a chance to look up again, Andrew was up, in his space, a hair's breadth away, looking more angry than distraught now.  “You’re fucking lying to me.” He spat out. “Fuck you. Grow a pair and tell me the truth.” 

Fletcher looked him up and down and felt a surge of pride at how bold and how willful he had become.  He could only hope this didn’t crush that. “I’m telling you the fucking truth kid, back off.” 

“Bullshit.”  Andrew breathed back.  “Bullshit. This had been going on for years, Fletcher.  I know you. I know you better than this. I know you better than to believe this.”  His words dripped with self-assuredness, but the trembling of his lip betrayed him. He was falling apart before his eyes and by his hand.  

Fletcher shook his head and looked past him, through him, anything to avoid looking at him, but it was hard at this proximity.  He began to speak, but Andrew cut him off before he could get a word out. 

“If that was why, you wouldn’t bee all quiet and stoic.”  He whispered. “If you were just done with me, you wouldn’t do it like this.”  His dynamic steadily grew as he continued speaking. “You wouldn’t stand there calmly and let me argue with you.  You’d laugh at me and fucking yell at me! You’d call me a self righteous asshole for thinking I ever meant shit to you.”  He grasped at his arms, searching for an anchor, clinging to him in desperation for confirmation. “Tell me the truth.” He said, voice shaking.

Fletcher finally looked at him just enough to see tears of shock, confusion, anger welling up in his eyes, the heartbreak that loomed.  He used to enjoy making people upset, making  _ Andrew _ upset.  Getting a rise out of him was so satisfying at one time, any emotional response, a breakdown.  He used to revel in it. He pushed Andrew away. “Kid,” he said seriously, more gently than he meant to.  “It’s over, alright? Really.” He itched to reach back out, but he didn’t. He needed to be pushed away hard enough.  “I’ll leave for a couple days. Call the movers. Use my credit card. Move out.” 

Andrew stared at him for another moment before turning and walking out of the room, bounding down the stairs without another word.  

Another brief allowance of grief.  Fletcher remained where he was standing, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath.  He took his phone out of his pocket and called, making reservations at a hotel in Chelsea, one he had strong memories of.  Then he packed a suitcase.

When he walked downstairs, the basement door was open.  Andrew was furiously, aggressively, manically practicing.  He looked at the open doorway for a pause, then continued walking out of the house, leaving the door unlocked behind him.

* * *

 

Andrew turned his brain off.  He blocked out everything that wasn’t essential.  When he had practiced enough to drown out the despair with ringing in his ears, he got up and started packing.  He moved all his boxes from the basement into the hallway by the door. Next, he put all his clothes from the bedroom into suitcases and uniform bags.  Then he packed up his toiletries and personal belongings such as his phone charger, laptop bag, records, and the small stack of books from the shelf that belonged to him.

He didn’t realize how much time had passed until he saw the sun setting through the kitchen window when he stopped to have a glass of water.  How was it already six o’clock? It didn’t make a difference. It was Sunday. Movers wouldn’t be available today, regardless of the time of day, not to mention he didn’t really have anywhere to go. His head was swimming and his body was numb other than the persistent ache in his chest.  The longer he stood in the kitchen staring at the clock, the more he was going to think about it. A lump was already forming in his throat, and he couldn’t handle breaking down right then and there. There was too much to do. 

After spending time wracking his brain for a solution to a slim part of this problem, he found it.  He’d have to swallow his pride and hope senselessly that he would forgive him.

So he grabbed his small suitcase and packed it with the bare necessities and caught the train.

* * *

 

“Just a second!  I’m coming!” He heard footsteps approaching the door and the muffled voice.  “Who in the world, at this time of night.” The door swung open and his dad stopped dead in his tracks, staring down at him on the stoop.  “Andrew?” 

His whole face was flushed, ears burning hot in the icy air of this wintry night.  Maybe it was his embarrassment, having to come back here with his tail tucked between his legs after so long.  Maybe he was just desperate for his dad to welcome him back. Maybe he was just relieved to see him. Whatever the reason, this was the moment he broke down.  He dropped his bag on the stoop. His head fell forward and he covered his face with his hands, sobs consuming him, shame in every tear, struggling to breathe enough through his ruin.  

“Hey, shh...”  Before he realized it, his dad had wrapped his arms around him, hand landing gently on the nape of his neck.  All of a sudden, he was eight years old again, home from school with a scraped knee because that jerk Bobby Russo had pushed him off his bike.  He was eleven, crying because their neighbor had yelled at him and said he was too old to dress up for Halloween. He was sixteen, and had just failed his driver’s permit test for the third time. 

All the mistakes he had ever made were all right here, and he knew the biggest one of any of them was cutting his father out of his life, the one person who had been a constant in his life, the one person who could ever understand.  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He blubbered through his sobs.

His dad just smoothed his hand over his back.  “I know. I know, Andrew. It’s okay. It’s okay.”  He reassured him. 

When snow began to fall, he picked his son’s bag up off the ground and took both it and him inside.

* * *

 

Once again, they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, both with a mugful of hot apple cider, neither of them spiked.  

“So...what’s new?”  His dad asked finally, awkwardly. 

All Andrew could do was laugh and wipe at his eyes.  “Oh...everything.” He managed to grit out. “I’m uh...I’m at Lincoln Center now.  I graduated from Shaffer.” 

His dad smiled sadly and nodded.  “I know.” He sipped his cider. “You didn’t think I’d miss your graduation, did you?  Or your first concert at Lincoln Center? They did a whole profile on you for the website.  You’re a big deal, bud.” 

Andrew felt warmth at knowing that despite it all, his dad still had pride in him.  “You were um...you were right. I shouldn’t have stayed with him. I shouldn’t have trusted him.”  

“Did he hurt you?”  Jim asked seriously, anger sparkling in his eyes.

Andrew shook his head.  “He...he just made a fool out of me.”  He said softly. “He was just using me all along.  Fooled me into trusting him.” 

Jim nodded and sipped his cider, eyes down on the table.  “He left you, huh?” 

Andrew’s deep breath was as much of a confirmation as anything.  “I’ve been living with him for years, and I don’t really have anywhere to go, now that I have to move out.  I...” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I know you don’t approve of me and my career, or...or my sexuality but can I stay here for a little while?  Just until I can find a place.” He kept his head turned down in shame. “I know I have no right to ask you to-”

“Wait, what?”  His dad shook his head in disbelief.  “No right? I’m your father, Andrew. Nothing’s ever going to change that.  When did I ever say I didn’t approve of your sexuality?” 

Andrew blinked and forced himself to look up.  “You said you were never going to be okay with it.”  

Jim’s eyebrows furrowed in sorrow.  “All this time that’s what you thought I meant?”  He asked mournfully. “Andrew, that’s not what I meant when I said that. I meant I was never going to be okay with you being involved with someone that much older than you.”  

So many misconceptions clicked into place and he felt the pain of three years come surging to the surface.  “Oh.” He said brokenly. “I...I thought-”  
Jim reached across the table and patted his hand.  “Son, I would never love you any less for anything.  Certainly not for something like that. I...I can’t believe I went this long letting you believe that.”  He put a hand on his forehead. 

“It’s my fault.  I didn’t stay long enough to let you explain.  I got all hotheaded and-”

“No, I blew my top. I should have listened and tried to understand.  You-”

Andrew shook his head.  “If I had called,”

His dad murmured out in unison, “If I had just called you-”

They met eyes and let out a quiet chuckle at the incomprehensible babbling, and how in sync it was.  

“Of course you can stay here.”  Jim finally said. 


	18. Eighteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for not updating for a long time. Some illness and financial struggles prevented me from getting anything written. This chapter is very short but I felt the need to post it now because it's been so long. Transitional chapter.

1968, The Chelsea Hotel, NYC. The walls talked and so did people walking by.  You were a young poor man standing around the Chelsea Hotel? Nobody had to guess why.  And that he was. Recently having left his parents’ strictly catholic house with only what he could fit in his yellow vinyl suitcase, Terence Fletcher found himself there.  He caught the eye of and then walked in alongside a middle aged man, dashing smile, handsome features, charming dark hair and eyes, and a trombone case. 

“You’re a musician?”  He asked him timidly, shyly hiding behind a mop of light, wispy brown hair.  The door was closed to the small, dark, hotel room.

The man answered by roughly pushing his small body up against the wall, rattling the light fixtures with the force.  “Why don’t you speak up?” He grunted, face so close to his that he could smell the whiskey on his breath. “What’s with all you punks?  The fuck are you afraid of?” 

He shook his head, eyes wide.  “Nothing!” 

The man smirked.  “Nothing?” He asked lowly.  “You weigh less than a hundred and fifty pounds, only five foot nine, baby face like that, and you ain’t afraid of nothing?”

He realized then that in truth, he really wasn’t.  The surprise on his face faded and he met his eyes then with a steely look, breathing evenly out.  “Nothing.” He said again, calmly, seriously, knowing it didn’t make sense. He was small, young, vulnerable, at this man’s mercy, but he was headstrong and determined.  

The man’s eyes glowed and his smile grew.  “Good. Me neither.” 

His teenage years  had passed with sneaking out, prowling the New York streets and absorbing all the culture that he could.  Jazz was a man’s game, and he may have been only a boy, but he wanted everything to do with it. The lone sax player on the street corner became God; the sleazy bar spilling ragtime from it’s doors was heaven.  Though he never saw that man who was his first time again, the unspoken philosophy remained with him. He wasn’t afraid of anything, but other people were. There was no reason he shouldn’t achieve everything he wanted.  The world was his for the taking, guns blazing like an outlaw in a western, because all he had to do was prove he wasn’t afraid of it. 

The more experience he found, the more people he met.  By the time he’d grown to be an adult, he had gotten fed up with pretending.  He was classically trained on piano, said grace at the dinner table, forced a tight lipped smile when his mother asked if he had met a nice young girl yet, but he didn’t want to waste his time anymore.  So when he graduated high school and said he was going to Shaffer Conservatory to learn about jazz, and his father asked him what he was thinking, accusing him of falling into that counter culture, liberal, swing trap, he confirmed it; he was kicked out of his family home with no more than a slap in the face the moment the word ‘gay’ passed his lips.

Having lived a sheltered and structured home life for so long, he found liberation in being free of it.  Even if it meant he had to slum it for a while. Lingering around the hotel gave him experience, as did the friends he made in jazz bars and clubs.  He fell in with the crowd he’d been circling for years, moved through a long line of friends’ homes, slept on sofas, floors, fire escapes, until he felt he had taken in enough, learned all he could from the street and from the hearts of so many passionate and lost young people.

Auditions, essays, scholarships, grants, and endless hours of practicing until his fingers were stiff from overuse.  At Shaffer, he got acquainted with a lot of people, all of whom were eager to become the best; then he figured maybe fear was the only true human emotion.  These students performed their best because they were afraid of becoming nothing, they dated because they were afraid of being alone, and they drank because they were afraid of being sober and alone with their doubts and with their  _ fears. _  He climbed the ladders twice as fast as most because he  _ wasn’t  _ afraid.  He impressed everyone, was able to study abroad in Budapest where he saw Count Basie and his orchestra perform live, where he frequented the public bath houses, made acquaintances that were more than a little friendly, and gained experience that would shape his sexuality.  He came back to New York and finished his degree, performed with bands for a while before he decided to start teaching. No sooner than he had done, all his friends seemed to vanish with the wind, or rather, with a very specific gust of it that engulfed particularly the crowd he hung around with.  One by one the people he was close with became victims of the Reagan administration and the disease it ignored. He figured he would see another surge of fear, of death and of loss. Instead, he was faced with a collective anger that he hadn’t seen since Stonewall, and a genuine one.

Very well.  Fear and anger are the only true emotions, he decided.  So he instilled both into his students. Fear of failure, fear of him, fear of disappointing their families, anger at him for humiliating them, anger at someone else for doing better or gaining favoritism, it was the way he ran this world that he was building for himself.  

He built his name along with his world, and as he got older, his taste got younger.  The first student he ever became involved with was eighteen in 1985, the year he turned thirty five.  It grew into a habit. When things with Sean Casey went bad, he defined grief as another true human emotion.

Now, sitting on the edge of a plush mattress in a wonderfully refurbished room in that same hotel where he lost his virginity forty eight years prior, he came to the conclusion that there was in fact another true human emotion.  He struggled to give it a name, but it fell in the same basket as grief, a facet of it. Loss, pain, regret, anger, fear, as it turns out? He felt it all. He was afraid of being alone. He was afraid of death. He was afraid of how Andrew was taking it.  How had he let himself get so jaded in his youth? No, how had he let himself get so vulnerable now? If he had never let himself fall, he wouldn’t be stuck struggling to catch himself. He had always scoffed in the face of attachment, ever since the one he had to his parents had been so violently severed, and yet he walked into this situation with Andrew so  _ fearlessly _ , let himself become enraptured by him, let himself become attached, and it landed him in the hot water he was in now.  

He stared down at his hands, wrinkled and weathered with age, those fingers that had been locking up and aching whenever he played the piano lately.  No matter how much he tried to tell himself he hadn’t been that attached to Andrew, he couldn’t deny his body’s memory of routine. He had to adjust the thermostat to compensate for the lack of warmth in the bed.  Insomnia had resurged with a vengeance, and it was made worse by his aching joints. He tossed and turned at night, tortured both by his own body and mind, and the thought of Andrew’s.

* * *

 

The last of Andrew’s boxes were loaded onto the truck.  He walked back into the house and hesitantly made his way downstairs to the basement.  He had loaded the truck in a little over an hour, brain numb and heart more so. He moved quickly, stacked boxes, arranged furniture just right so that it wouldn’t slide, wrapped things in sheets, bubble wrap, kept himself busy and moving to keep from thinking about anything too long.  Now he looked out over the basement, back to the way it had looked when he first saw it. Boy, he had thought things were complicated  _ then _ .  

He picked up his drumsticks from the floor next to the stool, took the signed Charlie Parker record down off the wall, and went back upstairs and into the living room.  He sat the sticks and the record down on the coffee table while he poured himself a stiff drink, swallowing it down in one gulp and not wincing in the slightest. 

His dad knocked lightly on front door and opened it, sticking his head in.  “Ready to go kiddo? The driver is all set.” 

Andrew set the glass down and wiped his mouth off.  “Yeah.” He said, clearing his throat. He grabbed the record in it’s frame and walked out of the house, locking the door behind him and dropping the key into the sconce next to it.  

* * *

 

Going back to the house felt as wrong and hollow as Fletcher did, but it was his house.  He had to go back at some point, and there was no sense in letting everything that had happened make him feel repelled by his own home.  

He made his way downstairs and looked out over the basement, which had looked so cramped and overcrowded before, and he had complained about it endlessly.  Now it seemed empty, and far too quiet. Gone were all the boxes, the furniture, and the cacophonous and relentless practicing of that young hot headed boy that he had let himself grow so fond of.

_ Who gives a shit?   _ He shook his head at himself.   _ Look at all this space you have now.  It’s for the fucking best.  _

He went back upstairs without looking at the spot on the wall where the Charlie Parker record wasn’t hanging.  

There were hungry man dinners shoved in the back of his freezer, and he pulled one out and tossed it into the microwave.  Another long moment passed before he decided to have a drink and walked into the living room to get one. 

He stared at the used glass sitting by the empty bottle of whiskey longer than he would ever admit before grabbing the rum instead.  Back to the kitchen to get his meal out of the microwave. He choked down a few bites before giving up and throwing it out, the silence of the room deafening.  Back to the living room, he put on a Duke Ellington record and sat down with his second drink on the sofa. His eyes were drawn to the coffee table, falling on the forgotten drumsticks that sat there.  

God, couldn’t he just get the thought of him out of this house?  There were little reminders hiding in every corner, on every surface, in every breath he took.   _ He was just some kid you fucked around with.  Get the hell over it.  _

He looked at his watch for the time.

* * *

 

His dad’s house felt the same now as it had when he was in high school, except that he was in it more.  And that he was drinking like his life fucking depended on it.  As soon as he got home from rehearsal, sometimes even at rehearsal.  The days all blurred together.  The excuse that his drums weren't unpacked yet continued to be a fallback for justifying to himself why he wasn't practicing.  At all. Bottles piled up in the bottom of the closet that had at one point held legos and model planes.  

When he came home one day to find his father there in the early afternoon, he lifted an eyebrow and sat across from him at the kitchen table.  “Teacher workday or something?” he asked. 

Jim looked up at him from the laptop and pile of paper beside it.  “What?” He asked, tilting his head. “No, I took the year off. I didn’t mention?”  

He felt a smile work its way across his face for the first time since that day.  “No, you didn’t mention.” 

Jim got up, struggling to keep the prideful smile off his own face as he walked into the living room and returned with a hardcover book with his face on the back.  He handed it to Andrew and cleared his throat. “Sure. Finished one, halfway through the next. Actually found a publisher who thought it was good and it’s been selling off the shelves ever since it came out.” 

A long moment passed of him staring down at the front cover of the book that he had seen in stores but never looked at closely enough to notice it was his own father’s publication.  He looked up at him, eyes wide and heart swelling with as much pride was was muted in his father’s expression. “Well I guess I’ll have to read it, huh? Jump on the bandwagon?”

* * *

 

Fletcher woke one morning, a couple weeks into creating a new routine, to his phone ringing on the bedside table and answered it gruffly.  

“Is this Terence Fletcher?”  A young woman’s voice asked shakily.

He sat up and leaned heavily against the headboard.  “Yes, who is this?” 

“Well like, a guy just got T-boned out in front of my apartment.”  The girl continued. “I called 911 and they’re on their way. The guy is unconscious but he’s breathing.”  She sounded on the verge of tears, inflection wavering and breaths coming in short and fast. He could hear sirens in the background of the call.  “Your name is on the registration so I looked up your number and called you ‘cause I thought maybe you should know. The kid’s name is-” 

“Andrew Neiman.”  He said softly, completing her sentence for her.

* * *

 

Andrew heard the hospital door open, expecting it to be his dad.  He winced in pain when he saw who it actually was, averting his eyes.  The door shut again, but Fletcher didn’t move into the room, standing idly by the door.  

A long moment passed.   

“Your hands okay?”  Fletcher asked finally.  

Andrew looked up and met his eyes for a brief moment before nodding and taking a shaky breath in.  “Hands are fine. Nothing’s broken. I just have a concussion and had to get some stitches.” 

“Lose a lot of blood?”  Fletcher stepped a bit further into the room, looking out the window rather than at Andrew.

“Yeah but they said they don’t have to do a transfusion.  I just have to rest for awhile.” He stared a Fletcher’s shoulder, his back, just his form in the same room as him again.  The adrenaline from the crash had faded, leaving him with emotions running high and logic running away. “I...I’m sorry about the car.”  He choked out, mortified that his eyes were filling with tears, and angrily wiping them away. 

Fletcher shook his head.  “Don’t worry about the car.”  He glanced over his shoulder at him.  “Is it totaled or could I have it fixed for you?”  

He swallowed.  “I can’t let you do that.  It’s going to be ridiculously expensive to repair.  I’m just going to leave it in my dad’s garage.” 

Fletcher pursed his lips dismissively.  “It’s no trouble. Just give me your dad’s address and I’ll have someone pick it up for repairs.”  

“Why are you doing this?”  

The midday sun was harshly shining through the window, scattering over them with such little obstruction in this sterile, white room.  They spent so long in the dark, dark rooms, dark nights, dark auditoriums, and everything blew up. Now they were washed in painfully bright light, on display. On stage. Laid bare. 

The muscles in Fletcher’s jaw moved as he clenched his teeth, turning to face him fully.  “I bought you the car because I want you to have it. I’m having it fixed for you, and signing it over into your name.”  

His throat was dry, and he ached for things to be normal.  The words  _ why did you leave me _ repeated in his head, cycling through over and over, but was it just too pathetic to ask? 

“How’s Lincoln Center?”  

He nodded and cleared his throat, wincing at the pain that echoed in his head.  “It’s um...it’s good. Things have been fine.” 

They didn’t say much else to one another.  Andrew scribbled his dad’s address onto a torn piece from some discharge instructions, and Fletcher said a tow truck would be by the next morning.

His dad walked into the room just before Fletcher walked out, and froze, like a deer in the headlights.  His mouth opened and closed, searching for words to say and questions to ask, but nothing came out. Fletcher looked him over briefly and exhaled through his nose dismissively, judgmentally, that subtle displeasure that Andrew had grown so used to hearing.  Then he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him, leaving the sun to shine on his father’s disapproval and his own brokenness. 

A nurse walked in that evening with a percocet prescription.  “Take these around the clock until you feel you don’t need to.  Don’t exceed six pills in-” Her instructions faded away in his mind as he dumbly took the bottle from her hand.  His dad gathered up his things, helped him stand and put his jacket on, and that was that. In and out of the hospital with no second thoughts.  On his part anyway. 

Once he was sat in the car and his father had sat down with a huff in the driver’s seat, the door slammed.  Andrew winced and glanced over. “Why did you slam the door so hard?” 

“Because I’m furious with you right now.”  He answered lowly.

“But back in the hospital you weren’t-” 

His dad shook his head and put the car into drive, pulling out of the space.  “I have to try to be understanding when you’re laying in a damn hospital bed, Andrew.”  He looked over at him. “Driving drunk? Not going to rehearsals? This isn’t being  _ the best _ , son.”  He paused, jaw clenching as he drove along in silence.  “If you don’t pull yourself together,” he said finally, so quietly it almost went unheard. “ you’re going to disappoint yourself more than you’re going to disappoint anyone else.”  


	19. Nineteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ensemble is going on tour, but not before we're visited by a familiar face. Andrew is isolating and self-medicating in true Andrew fashion.

The numbness in his head spread once again from his head to his hands to his whole body.  Sure the pain from the accident had ceased to trouble him, but that didn’t mean he should stop taking the pain meds.  They gave him a months worth, and he figured they wanted him to take a months worth, even if the label urged him to only take them when needed.

He let his head droop back, hitting the headboard harder than he had expected it to.  The dusky light of early afternoon did little to illuminate his childhood bedroom through the small window. He reread the email from Marsalis again, insisting that he take time to recover and that he didn’t doubt that he could catch up to where they were in rehearsal when he came back.  The attached sheets of music were complicated, but nothing he hadn’t played before. The upcoming tour wouldn’t begin for another two weeks, and he already had a pretty good idea of what he was supposed to play, despite having been out of rehearsal for a week.  Some of the setlist was the same as what they had played at the previous concert, what they had been working on since he had started with them. 

The restlessness in his fingers brought him to his text messages as he opened and closed apps.  Dad. Ray. Fletcher, from before all of this. Messages from Connolly from months ago. Angela, from even further back.  He swallowed and tapped on her name, reading that message that had resulted in such an argument, indirectly resulting in his advancement.  He scrolled, feeling the slightest hint of a smile develop as he read through earlier texts, happier ones, teasingly romantic ones. 

Desperation for contact and for an escape from the isolation of his own mind outweighed the nagging thought that it was too soon and that lingering emptiness in his chest.  He inhaled slowly, then exhaled in a huff before lifting his other hand with effort and tapped out a message, though it was clearly a bad idea. 

_ Any chance you’re free tonight?  -Andrew _

He waited.  Time passed and he got up, went to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee, thankful that his father was out of the house and he wouldn’t have to try and make small talk or avoid his concerned gaze.  He looked at his phone again. No messages. He poured a substantial amount of Baileys into his cup.

Aimlessly, he walked around the house, picking up items and just trying to busy himself to keep from going stir crazy or getting too terribly anxious about the lack of text alerts.  After his cup was empty and his head was even more swimy, he went upstairs and into the bathroom, turning on the shower he hadn’t used for days and stripping down, hoping the scalding water against his skin would at least bring him back into the now enough to practice drumming for a little while.  He put Joni Mitchell and Pat Metheny on spotify on his phone and sat it on the counter, stepping into the shower.

His hair falling an inch past his eyes when the water washed over him should have been an indication that it was time for a haircut, but no such thought crossed his mind as he pushed it back and stood there, idly, making no move to reach for the soap in his haze.  Song after song played and the water went from hot to lukewarm, but he didn’t notice. 

Then, suddenly, the song was interrupted by a chime, the phone buzzing more noisily than the tone on the countertop.  He jolted out of his daze and pulled the curtain back, stepping carelessly out of the shower, nearly tripping as he reached for his phone. 

_ It’s alive!  It speaks! What plans could the biggest flake of history have in mind? -Angela _

He let out a breath of bemusement and belatedly thought to dry off his hands and the now damp phone before sinking down to sit on the bathmat against the tub, shower still running.  

_ A drink?  Chance to redeem my good character? -Andrew _

_ Oh, when has good character ever been a quality you think I look for? -Angela _

_ Ouch.  I deserve that.  -Andrew _

_ Yeah, you do.  But maybe I’m stupid enough to give you the benefit of the doubt.  -Angela _

_ Rizzo’s on Grand St?  I’m buying. -Andrew _

_ Oh, you convinced me, Mr. Moneybags.  9:00. -Angela _

* * *

 

He sat at the bar, two scotch and sodas in at 9:45 pm.  Every gust of cold wind that came in when the door opened brought his attention to it. But after nearly an hour of looking around like a lost puppy every time the door opened and someone else who wasn’t Angela walked through it, he had lost any sense of hope.  

He knew he deserved to be stood up, but the bartender didn’t.  He put another glass down in front of him and took the previous.  “Scotch and soda. Top shelf. On the house.” 

He looked up and forced a smile, meeting his eyes only briefly before looking back down at the bar, muttering a halfhearted thanks over the quiet murmurs of conversation and distant rock music playing over the speakers.

“On the house, huh?  Somebody likes you.” 

He looked up sharply and met Angela’s eyes, still as full of persistent light after the few years that had passed, despite being reddened by either the cold or having recently smoked weed. Having known her, he had to assume the latter.  She had lost weight that she couldn’t afford to have lost, and her clothes hung loosely on her now, the kind of careless fashion that he never would’ve expected from her, considering her major and her interests. “Hopefully you.” 

She laughed and sat down next to him.  “We’ll find out after a few drinks.” She got the bartender’s attention and ordered a Manhattan with two extra cherries.  

“A drink as sweet as you.”  He said after a moment’s hesitation.  

Again, she laughed, and it sounded insincere.  “Oh, what a corny line. What have you got there?”  She took his glass and sipped it before pulling a face and setting it down, sliding it back over to him.  “A drink as bitter as you.” 

He hung his head in a blend of sheepishness and shame, rubbing his neck as he stared down at the bar.  “Yeah, I... I should have apologized a long time ago.”

“You can do it now.”  She said, when he neglected to continue speaking.

He nodded and sipped his drink before turning to face her, eyes still looking off to the side.  “I’m sorry. I was an ass. I shouldn’t have ignored you. I was...I was going through some shit.”  

She nodded, taking her drink from the bartender when he brought it and eating a cherry off the top straight away.  “Yeah. You were an ass.” She said, tossing the cherry stem onto the counter. 

A long moment passed during which he simply nodded.  Finally he met her eyes. “I missed you, and I’d really like to spend time with you again.”

The night went on, and they both drank through it.  

“My grandma died.”  She said somewhere halfway into their conversation.  

He nodded sympathetically.  “I’m sorry, that’s awful.” 

“No, she lived a good life.  And she was happy.” She replied, stirring her third drink with her finger.  

“What did she do?”  

She lifted an eyebrow.  “What do you mean? She was a grandma.  She didn’t do stuff.” She shrugged. “She worked in a bookstore when she was a teenager or whatever, but my pop worked and she stayed home.  After he died and my mom and I moved away, she just sat there and watched jeopardy and quilted. My uncle still went to visit her a lot, and we saw her for Christmas, but that was pretty much her life.”  

He cleared his throat.  “So,”

“So how did she live a good life?”  Angela finished the thought for him, and as she did, he realized how insensitive it was.  “You baffle me. You don’t suppose a life can be well lived without great success and accomplishment?” 

He shook his head, trying to deny that thought process, but he couldn’t seem to articulate an argument against it.  Maybe he didn’t have one at all.

“So what about you?  Any new great success to share?”  

He swallowed and polished off his drink.  “I mean...I graduated. I signed with Lincoln Center.”  

“So,” She nodded and looked him up and down.  “This is what a well lived life looks like. Great success, a childhood dream that you’ve achieved before the age of thirty, drinking five scotch and sodas on a Tuesday night with me, a girl you slept with once and went out with two or three times and then didn’t speak to for years, and nowhere left to go.  No ladders left to climb, no summit to reach, sitting pretty at your peak. Right?” 

Andrew stared at her for a long time, maybe the longest he’d ever looked someone in they eye.  A small part of him realized she was right. Another part of him could only laugh and shake his head.  “Well that’s not all. I’m also an alcoholic with a pill problem.” He defended jokingly.

She tilted her head in intrigue.  “More and more depressingly interesting every year, Andrew Neiman.”  

* * *

 

Maybe he was using Angela as a painkiller as much as he was the percocet, but what was the issue?  It’s not like it was anything serious, just like before. And it got him out of the house and doing stuff; sex, for one.  And drugs for another. As it turns out, fashion school is just as good a place to get those connections as music school. 

She had upgraded from a dorm to a studio apartment in Washington Heights, a neighborhood he wasn’t that familiar with but was growing to love.  It was jam packed full of culture, and the only place he’d ever witnessed in New York to be as friendly and close knit a community as a suburb. More so, maybe.  Most people in her building left their doors propped open or unlocked. Need a cup of sugar? Come on over and borrow it. Sure, I can watch your kids while you pick up your laundry!  Who all is coming over to watch the game? It was pleasant and intimidating at the same time somehow. How was he supposed to relate to these people? To anyone? She introduced him to a hairstylist neighbor while walking by, and she promptly offered to give him a free haircut if he ever needed one.  Who was actually that friendly?

“So...”  He chuckled as she shut her door behind them.  “Nice neighbors.” 

She nodded and walked past him into the kitchen.  “Yeah, they’re great. They’re like a family.” She opened a bottle of wine and poured a couple of glasses, one of which he enthusiastically took when it was handed to him.  “They even have barbecues and get togethers and stuff.” 

He sat down on her daybed, sheer yellow bed skirt tangling around his ankles as he did.  “I’ve never seen that in the city before. It’s really cool.” 

She hummed in agreement and sat down next to him, pulling her legs up underneath her and tucking her hair behind her ear.  “So what’s next for you? I mean when’s your next performance?” 

“I’m actually going on tour soon.  Playing around the states with Lincoln Center.  Lots of colleges and festivals and things.” He answered as he gulped his drink down.  “Practices have been more intense lately, which I like. It had been very lax for a while.”  

She put on some French music on a bluetooth speaker as he was talking.  French Jazz, actually, which he couldn’t help but think egotistically was her being cautious of what she played since he was a bit of a music snob.  It wasn’t bad; unusual and deviant from his usual standards, but not bad. 

“When do you leave?”  

“Next Saturday.  First destination is Albany, so that’s not too far, but we’re going all over the place.”  He cleared his throat and tried to focus on her more than the music. “I’ve never been to the west coast, so I’m excited to play in Vegas and LA.”  

The evening passed with light conversation, including the name of the band she had put on,  _ Paris Combo.   _ He grew to like it the more he listened to it and made a mental note to add it to his playlists, branch out a little more.  In high school he had listened to more of a variety of things, but Shaffer and Fletcher had narrowed his horizons in that respect.  Maybe the way she was treating music around the him was the same way he had treated it around Fletcher; only playing stuff he knew would be well received and never playing anything he didn’t know inside and out, lest he be embarrassed when he was inevitably grilled about the origin and history of a song or artist.

It had been a long time since his face had been between a soft, supple pair of thighs, the delicate hair on her legs like velvet on his now rough cheeks.  It was pleasant, exceedingly so, to feel the heat of another person again, to ease into her with gentle fervor, to hear the mild noises fall from her open lips, painted bright red in perfect fashion.  He had been cold since Fletcher had dropped him so carelessly from what had been a comfortable, albeit stressful nest. It’s like he’d been fruitlessly trying to warm himself, rubbing his hands together, breathing over them, running them under water, but it had been ice cold, his joints and soul stiffening more and more rather than defrosting.  

She was still so sweet, so comfortable, so... convenient.  They worked on many levels; friendship, sex, deviancy. And yet every time over the course of the next week when he left her apartment, he left feeling hollow, and hating himself a little bit more than before.  What the fuck was that about? It made him feel better to be with her, but in hindsight, he regretted every interaction.

* * *

 

“Got everything packed?”  His dad stuck his head into his bedroom.

Andrew looked up from his toiletry bag, having just shoved an ibuprofen bottle full of adderall and percocet into it.  “Yeah, just about. I think I’m a little short on toothpaste, but it’s not like I can’t buy that anywhere.” 

“I can’t believe you guys are flying to Albany.  It’s such an easy drive.” 

The morning light hadn’t begun to shine yet.  He was supposed to be at LaGuardia at four AM to meet the rest of the band.  “Yeah, it just keeps us from having to get a bus or something and worry about returning it.  We’re flying to every stop.” 

“At least you don’t have to buy the tickets.”  His dad chuckled. “That’s a hell of a lot of flights.”  They packed his bags into his dad’s car and headed out. “Now, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me or something.” 

Even New York was relatively quiet this early in the morning, and his dad had neglected to turn on the radio, so it was even more unsettling, just the sound of the car and his dad’s nervous breathing next to him.  They were apart for a long time when Andrew had made all those mistakes of his, but never quite so  _ far  _ apart as they would be in the next month.  

He stared out the window across the street, cars parked up and down both sides, early morning shifts about to start, bakers and shop clerks walking along in solitude, smoking their first cigarettes of the day.  “I’ll call if I need anything.” 

“And even if you don’t.”  His dad corrected, looking at him fondly as they slowed to a stop at the light.  “I want to know you’re alright.” 

Andrew nodded, and when they pulled up to the airport, he got his bags out with his dad’s help and then waved goodbye as he got back into the vehicle.

* * *

 

“Alright, listen up.”  Marsalis called, once they were all seated at the terminal.  “Hotel room assignments aren’t exactly the forefront of my mind.  Work it out yourselves. It’s two to a room. Pair up.” 

Sections turned to each other.  Most trumpets with trumpets, saxes with saxes, etc.  Ray, the pianist, decided to room with the bassist. Most of these people were a few years older than he was, and as close knit as the group was, he knew he was the outcast.  Well, one of the outcasts. The sole flute player of the group, George, was in his fifties, a stout man with a beard who looked more like he belonged playing on a street corner than in an ensemble of this caliber.  As it turns out, he didn’t have a roommate yet. 

“Hey,” Andrew walked up and sat down next to him.  “Want to room together?”

George glanced up from his book and chuckled heartily, like a mall Santa when a kid asked for a pony or a machine gun or something outrageous like that.  “Sure, kid. But hey, listen, I may be an old man, but I’m a married one. No funny business.” 

Andrew’s eyes widened and he scoffed.  “What?” He asked incredulously. 

“You’re Terence Fletcher’s shiny toy, right?  Word gets around, bud.” George tucked his bookmark between the pages and shut his novel, placing it gently in his carry on.  “I’m just messing around with you, okay? Just a joke.” 

Andrew nodded and stared at the ground, wondering how he had gone this long without realizing everyone knew.  “Just...just so you know, I don’t speak to him anymore. That’s all over. I didn’t know anyone knew about that.”  

“Hell, he almost had to step down from his position at Shaffer over it!”  George answered in surprise. “It’s hard not to hear about that when you play in these circles.” 

Andrew raised his eyebrows.  “He almost had to step down? What?  When was that?” 

“Couple months ago.”  He replied. “It was a whole big deal.  The only reason it didn’t get any bigger than it was was because you weren’t a student anymore at the point it all started going down.”  

Fletcher almost had to resign?  The dean must have caught stronger wind of what was going on, after the fact of course.  He didn’t contact him about it, the dean didn’t contact him about it, he didn’t even  _ hear _ about it until now, but everyone knew?  

“Okay guys,”  Marsalis waved a hand at them.  “We’re boarding.”


	20. Twentieth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Board meeting at Shaffer. Andrew goes on tour and makes worse and worse decisions, at first to the amusement of his band mates, and then drawing their concern. Jim Neiman is a trooper, and cares so much, guys.

If there was one thing worse at this place than the mindless students, senseless staff, and peace-less halls, it was faculty meetings.  

Fletcher sat, irritably tapping his fingers on the table in the boardroom, as they awaited the final person to join them; the dean.  The head of the board, as well as several other members and other teachers, were sitting around him, none of them looking at him. While it was true that people tended to avoid looking at him on principle, this was more pointed.  The reason became clear as soon as Agatha sat down at the table. 

“Alright, everyone.”  She cleared her throat and sat her briefcase down next to her seat.  “This is a meeting with a very specific topic in mind.” 

Fletcher raised his eyebrows as he noticed everyone shift uncomfortably, glancing around at each other.  “And what is that, pray tell?” He asked chidingly. 

She met his eyes.  “We’ve gotten some complaints from parents.”  

“Is that all?  They’re always complaining.  Everyone is.”   
  
“It didn’t used to matter.”  She replied curtly. “Not when it was just one or two.  But now it’s been a multitude, over multiple decades. It’s time to address it.” 

Fletcher recoiled.  “Decades? The only faculty member who’s even been here that long is me.  What could-” He stopped. She wasn’t looking away from him at all, gaze intensifying the longer it lasted.  “Ah.” He cleared his throat. “Well let’s have it. What outlandish claims have been made now?”

She pulled out her laptop, opening up her email.  “I’ve had correspondence with Jim Neiman, Andrew Neiman’s father, claiming that his son’s mental state deteriorated while he was your student.  He mentions substance abuse, depression, and hyperactivity.”

Fletcher sat back in his chair, ignoring the way his chest tightened at the mention of his name.  “Correlation does not equal causation. This can’t be tied to me in any meaningful way.”

She cleared her throat.  “He also claims that you had an inappropriate relationship of sexual nature with his son, an accusation that has been made before.”  

He scoffed.  “You’re just going to take the word of a man who-”

“He faxed me a copy of Andrew’s drivers license.  His residence is listed as your address.” She pulled a folder out of her bag and from it produced a smudgy fax copy of the information in question.  The eyes of everyone on the boardroom were on him now, no longer awkwardly looking away. Now, they felt, it was he who should feel uncomfortable. “Testimonies from students and faculty alike have only furthered the support for this claim being true.”  

He was cracking, all at once, out of nowhere, for the first time.  The unpleasant slow trickle of a bead of sweat down the side of his face was more damning than anything he could say.  “What testimonies?” 

Agatha packed the folder back into her bag.  “Students claiming that you showed an extreme favoritism for Andrew.  That he stayed after rehearsal often, and that the two of you regularly went into your office, closing and locking the door behind you.  Faculty members have seen the two of you arriving to school together and out at events together.” She let out a long sigh. “The fact of the matter is, we have a case.  We can’t ignore it and jeopardize the public image of our institution.” 

“You can’t fire me.”  He spat back. “I’ve been here too long.  I made this institution what it is.” 

One of the heads of the board spoke up finally.  “Nobody’s pushing to fire you, Terence.” 

“But we do need to protect the reputation of the school.”  Chimed in another.

Agatha nodded her agreement and closed her laptop.  “So we’re going to ask that you step down to teach the level one band.  It’s a lower profile. You’ll need to reduce your rehearsal hours; no students here after ten pm.  You aren’t allowed to be alone with a student behind closed doors under any circumstances.” 

He narrowed his eyes.  “So we’ll protect the school’s reputation, but make sure mine is as tarnished as humanly possible.”  
  
The HR director shook his head.  “Absolutely not. We’re doing everything in our power to keep this out of the press.  We don’t have any hard convictions and we haven’t asked you to admit to anything, so there’s no reason this should be a public scandal.” 

“Then why did Jim Neiman even contact you?” He demanded, face flushing from either anger or mortification, not that he would admit to the latter.

“He said he wanted to ensure it didn’t happen again with another student.”  Agatha answered. “Is it going to happen again, Terence?”

He clenched his fist in his lap, surveying the judgement in the eyes around the table.  Andrew probably had no idea his father had even contacted the school about this. He probably snuck around and took his license, made the copy, and put it back in his wallet.  The kid would be so embarrassed if he found out any of this had happened. “This is going to stay quiet?” 

“Absolutely.” Replied the HR director. 

“Okay.  No, it’s not going to happen again.”

* * *

 

The hotel room door opened unexpectedly and Andrew jumped, hurriedly pulling a sweater over the desk where he’d been sitting.  “Oh, I thought you were down in the bar.” He said shakily, running his hand over his face in a poorly concealed effort to hide any evidence of his activities.  

George nodded.  “Forgot my wallet.”  He smirked. “Whatcha got there?  Cocaine?” 

Andrew blinked and searched his mind for any explanation, but ended up just spluttering when he came up short.  

“Don’t worry kid, I’m no square.  What do you think this is? Baptist Men’s Choir?  It’s a fucking jazz band. We’re s’posed to do cocaine.”  He rifled through his suitcase, pulling out the trousers he’d worn earlier in the day and retrieving the wallet from their back pocket.  “As long as you can play and you don’t hurt yourself, it’s nobody’s business. ‘Course, if you wanna save me a hit of that, I think we’d be better friends afterwards.” 

Andrew nodded and let out the breath he’d been holding.  “Okay.” He managed to get out, clenching his hands in his lap to remind his body to feel.  George had come and gone again, and he finished what he’d been doing, feeling his heart beating faster in his chest, feeling the tension change from unpleasant to euphoric.  The pain in his nose and throat faded. His headache turned to a dull but exhilarating throbbing in the back of his head, down to his neck. Thank fucking God Angela given him a good deal before he left.  Although, there was no doubt he could get ahold of it elsewhere if he asked around. 

After letting the high settle in, he made his way down to the hotel bar like he was walking on air. 

“There’s our boy wonder now!”  Ray called from the bar where he sat next to George, the bartender smiling at their antics as he dried glasses behind the counter.  

George waved him over.  “Come on over here and socialize.  You’re like a damn recluse.” 

Andrew chuckled and shook his head as he walked over and sat down between the pair of them, feeling George put his arm around his shoulders like a fond uncle.  The tingling in his skin spread and for once, he felt comfortable around his band mates, happy even. Immensely happy, as though this were the happiest he’d ever be.  “I’m not that quiet, guys, come on.” 

“We’ll it’s a learned behavior.  I mean, Studio Band at Shaffer isn’t exactly the place to make friends, hm?”  Ray asked with a hum of laughter, sipping from a whiskey glass. 

“Can I get you something to drink?”  The bartender asked. 

Andrew cleared his throat and looked around the room, unaware of how manically his eyes roamed over every surface, every face, ever set of hands and ever glass in them.  “Uh...” He looked back towards the bartender. “Gin and tonic, neat.” 

As the bartender started working on making him the drink, their bassist moved to stand behind them. “Woah, that’s a  _ man’s  _ drink.  What’s boy genius doing ordering that?  Somebody get this kid a Shirley Temple.”  

George and Ray roared drunken laughter at the riff, and Andrew took it in good nature, laughing right along with them.  “Oh please.” He protested. “I’ve been an alcoholic since I was in high school.” Not entirely true, it had been his first year at Shaffer, but the point got made. 

“This kid’s had struggles already, folks.  He was always meant to be a jazz player.” Ray nodded, polishing off his glass.  

George nodded.  “And this is about the most I’ve heard him speak since he started with us.  I think he must be in a good mood.” He leaned in to his face and winked, then laughed that smokers raspy laugh of his and withdrew his arm from around his neck to drink his beer.

Andrew stifled a laugh and kept his head down.  George knew; nobody else needed to. Especially not Ray, considering how close he was with Marsalis.  Angela had been right. He was at the top of his game. He had nowhere to go but down, and he wasn’t ready to do so this quickly.  

* * *

 

The tour went on.  They played all the best halls in the country, as well as a few colleges and high schools.  He signed the programs of countless young aspiring musicians, the youngest of which was only in middle school.

“My mom bought me a ticket to come see you guys for my birthday.”  The boy said excitedly, holding his program so tightly it was bending.  “I want to play with Lincoln Center someday! I want to go to Shaffer too, like you.”  Andrew couldn’t help the glossy, far away look in his eyes as he stared down at this kid, so full of excitement, so ignorant of what life could become for him if this was indeed the path he chose.  

Finally he made himself respond with a smile and a small nod as he reached out to take the program and sign it.  “What instrument do you play?” 

“I’m a drummer.”  He answered. “Like you.”  
  
_Like me._

“Well practice.  That’s the only advice I can give.  Practice until your hands are numb.”  He told this pudgy, freckle face, Oklahoma hick-ville kid.  “And make sure you have plenty of options. Shaffer isn’t for everyone, and you should make sure you have backup schools.”  He punctuated his spiel with a deep sniff, his nasal passages burning and raw.  


* * *

 

Another hotel room and another evening at the bar, hands trembling so violently and aching for another hit, though it hadn’t even been an hour.  George’s gaze turned from amusement to concern, but said nothing at all. 

George turned the New York Times over in his hands one morning while Andrew was showering and was faced with a photograph of a small Jewish man, the name Neiman in block letters next to it.  The article that followed detailed how this man, the father of a former Shaffer student, no guessing as to who, was pushing for reform of the school and insisting that abuse behind the walls of the esteemed conservatory bred mental and physical health problems for the students and faculty alike.  When Andrew walked back out of the bathroom, he folded the paper up and shoved it under his pillow. 

“Finally.  I’ve been waiting to get in there for an hour.”  George said as he stood. 

Andrew shrugged, toweling his hair dry.  “You think I’m this put together without a little maintenance?”  

“Put together?”  He scoffed. “More like falling apart, kid.  By my observation, you could very well be stitching yourself back together in there every morning.”

He stepped into the bathroom, pulling out his phone as soon as the door was shut behind him, opening up the yellowpages site and searching for ‘Jim Neiman’.  

* * *

 

Fletcher got up and sighed after ignoring the insistent knocking for at least five minutes.  “Would you relax?” He asked as he pulled the door open. When it was Jim Neiman revealed to have been knocking, he frowned and cleared his throat.  “What do you want? Here to ask me to resign? Hang me in my basement?” 

Jim huffed and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them from balling into fists.  “No.” He said gruffly. “I’m here to ask you to talk some sense into my kid.” 

Fletcher blinked and crossed his arms.  “Regarding...?” 

“Regarding the fact that you broke him and then kicked him out into the world.”  Jim answered. “May I come in?” 

“No.”  Fletcher answered, instead stepping out onto the stoop and closing the door behind him.  “What are you babbling about?” 

A plane flew overhead and Jim waited until it had gone by, so it wouldn’t drown out his quiet voice amid the additional noise of traffic behind him.  “I got a call from a member of Andrew’s band saying he was concerned about Andrew’s drug use and self destruction. He’s doing cocaine and drinking himself to sleep and who knows what all else.  He never...” He shook his head and sighed. “He never used to be like this. He didn’t do this until you fucked him up, so I expect you to talk to him about it, you...you weasel.” His voice raised to a decibel seldom used by the elder Neiman.

Fletcher kept his lips pressed together in a thin line as he stared down at this man, vaguely wondering how tall Andrew’s absent mother had to be for the strangely tall kid to be Jim Neiman’s son.  Most of his mind was occupied with a resurgence of guilt, one which he aggressively resented. “I expect you to remove yourself from my doorstep. Ex-students aren’t my moral obligation.”

The man reluctantly stepped back and turned around, descending the steps, face still red with anger or disappointment or whatever it was that people felt in a moment like this.  

Fletcher shut the door uncharacteristically softly and stood behind it, starting at the knob, allowing himself a moment to consider the news he’d just heard and whether him talking to Andrew would help or hurt the situation.  He turned around and his gaze adjusted and fixed on his phone instead.

* * *

 

Andrew felt his phone buzz in his pocket and pulled it out to check the caller ID.  Angela. Again. He silenced it and replaced it, rolling up his stick bag in the warm up room of Benaroya hall in Seattle. The band was moving onstage for one of the final performances of the tour.  He stepped briefly into the bathroom, made sure it was empty, and did a line to steady and fuel him before walking onstage.

The crowd was large, but the hall not sold out.  Open seats remained in the very back. The golden light washing over the stage was warm, pleasant, a familiar friend he’d grown to need as much as air.  The band’s energy was the same pulsing motivation it had been the first night. Marsalis flashed a smile their way like always after addressing the crowd and welcoming applause before they rolled into All the Things that you Are.

After the show it was the same old thing down at the foot of the stage; signing programs, smiling, talking, “yes I enjoyed my time at Shaffer” this, and “I count my lucky stars” that.  

“Oh, what a nice surprise.”  He overheard Marsalis say behind him.  “Good to see you again, Terance. What brings you to Seattle?”

Andrew’s eyes widened and he shook his head at nobody but himself.  There was no way it was him. Plenty of people were called Terance.

“Just in town for a meeting.” 

All doubts and insistence that it couldn’t be him shattered at the sound of his voice.  So familiar, smooth, muted. So close to him, only a couple feet behind him. He could feel his eyes on the back of his head and he closed his own tightly, trying to gather the courage to turn around and face him.  He didn’t have another option. He couldn’t exactly run away from this. He opened his eyes again and caught a worried look from George before turning around and plastering a phony smile across his face. 

“Hey, Fletcher.”  He said as nonchalantly as he could manage.  

Fletcher answered fake smile with fake smile, reaching out to shake his hand in what felt like the most inappropriately placed cordiality possible.  “Nice set, Neiman.” 

Andrew stared at him just a bit to long, held his hand just a touch too tightly, and then let it go just a hair too quickly.  “Thanks. What...um, what are you doing in Washington?”

Fletcher crossed his arms and directed his eyes back at Marsalis as he spoke.  “Had a meeting earlier in the day. Thought I may as well come see the band while I was in town so nearby.”  

“Conveniently on the same day as our show.”  Andrew said, looking down at the unpolished tops of his shoes.

Another player called Marsalis over and Andrew could have produced a cocoon at that point just to hide from the eyes that were now focused on him.  

“Good tour?”  Fletcher asked quietly as he stepped closer to him, too close for comfort.  

Andrew forced himself to look up and meet his eyes.  “Yeah it’s been okay.” 

“Made better by staying high the whole time I suppose.”  He answered. When Andrew didn’t answer, Fletcher grabbed the collar of his jacket and pushed him towards the exit by the stage.  “Hallway. I want to have a word with you.” He said lowly. 

Andrew obeyed on instinct.  

Fletcher pulled him into an empty practice room and closed the door, flipping on the light.  

“What are you doing?”  He demanded, flushed from the contact and feeling his chest clench with the need to continue it.  Soon he found himself pressed against the wall, back against the vinyl painted brick. A pang of arousal ran through him which proved to be more painful in reminiscence than exciting physically.  

“You think you’re at the top?”   He grimaced. “You think you’re done?  You get to dick around now, snort coke and shoot up or whatever all it is you’re doing and then stumble out on stage and embarrass yourself?”

“What?  How did you...”

Fletcher scoffed.  “Everyone in your band knows.  And Marsalis isn’t an idiot. I’d bet money he knows too.  You didn’t think word would get around?” His hands hadn’t left Andrew’s shoulders, lingering there, grip tightening and loosening in such a reverent way that he almost allowed himself to be fooled into believing might be some indication that he missed him too.  

“So what?”  He asked, shaking his head and looking at the wall to avoid looking at him.  “It doesn’t matter. They all do drugs too, who cares? It’s just to take the edge off.”  

Fletcher grabbed his chin and turned him to face him.  “This isn’t being the best.” The words were so direct an echo of his father’s that he cringed.  “You think you’re something? Think you don’t have to work for this anymore? You’ve lost focus. You played very sloppily this show, and I have no doubt it’s the same as the fucking rest. You’re nothing, Andrew.  You’re shit.” 

The despair he felt first hearing the words morphed quickly into anger and he pushed him back, hard, more force than he’d used against him before.  More than was necessary. Fletcher stumbled backwards, nudging a chair in the process of regaining his balance. “Fuck you.” Andrew deadpanned. “I’m only what you made me.”  

“No.”  Fletcher answered, stepping closer, face only inches from his.  “No, I made you something worth talking about. I made you a great drummer.  All you are now is a mediocre talent. You’re a junkie. Keep this shit up and you’re going to end up playing halftime blues in some sleazy bar in Nowheresville USA like most dumb motherfuckers that pick up a pair of sticks end up doing.” 

Fueled, both by anger and remorse, he thoughtlessly grabbed Fletcher’s waist, pulling him closer.  He pressed his lips aggressively against his, feverishly trying to regain something, anything that made him feel alive again.  His hands moved up, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket as he kissed him, roughly, furiously, desperately.  Fletcher let him, honestly for longer than he expected, inhaling like he was remembering his scent, before pushing him away and slapping him across the face as hard as he always did.  The sting was more potent than usual, the feeling raw.  This time it didn't stir arousal, it didn't inspire effort.  It was blank pain, a reminder of the hollowness in his chest and that ever present confusion in his mind.  He didn't feel the tears until they were already on his cheeks, hot and angry as he was.

“Get your shit together.”  Fletcher spat back. “I didn’t invest this much time and money in you for you to fuck it all up like you always do.”  

He left him standing there in the practice room in the dark, turning the light off as he walked out on him once more.  He stared at the back wall, trying to come up with any way he could argue this in his mind where Fletcher was in the wrong.  How dare he come here, all the way across the country just to tell him he was shit? He was at the top of his game! 

But he knew that wasn’t true.  He’d stopped caring, and it was coming through now.  He was drumming like Cam; no soul, all beats. Something in the way he spoke to him, so reminiscent of his first days in Studio Band, so upfront and cruel, reminded him that he hadn’t always been this way.  His mind raced through the events; his first rehearsal with Fletcher and the humiliation he felt, the first time he’d gained his approval, when he brought Connolly in as a bartering chip, the first time they’d slept together, every slap in the face, every shout his direction, and how much he’d improved despite it all: because of it all.  

He could do better. 


	21. Sixth to Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're getting towards the end, which is saying something because more years are going to pass in the last six chapters and epilogue than did in the pre-breakup chapters. It may be a bit hectic and hard to follow, but I put a lot of cue words in to indicate the passing of time. If anyone wants a timeline, I'll make and post one. 
> 
> Andrew starts recovering from the addiction and his difficulty cultivating relationships. But lets be real, he get a little too confident as he is doing so and "getting his life on track" turns into rushing to accomplish all the non-career things society thinks he should have accomplished by now.

The lights of the dash and radio of Fletcher’s sleek, black, rental car were bright blue, assaulting his already weary eyes as he sank into the driver’s seat after leaving the performance hall.  He had started the car, but he couldn’t bring himself to shift into gear or put his hands on the wheel. Davis bled through the speakers,  _ It Never Entered My Mind.   _ As emotional as the lyrics in Sinatra’s rendition were, there was something dry and painful in this instrumental that he was so familiar with but had never actually heard until now. 

_ That’s what jazz is.  It’s emotion. It’s pain.  It’s loss. It’s joy. It’s feeling.  You dumb FUCK!  _

He felt the pain in his hand before he even realized that he’d punched the radio, shattering the screen.  He watched apathetically as blood trickled from his knuckles and fingers, blossoming across his hand like a flowering vine, dripping off of his arm and onto what were thankfully leather seats.  

After being numb to the world for a long moment, he reached behind him to get a handkerchief from his overnight bag, wincing at the sharp pain in his head as he strained to reach it, then tidied up his mess.  Once he’d wrapped his hand in it, he forced himself to move, putting the car into drive and setting off to check into the hotel, though it was already nearly midnight and at this point a part of him felt he may as well just go home, seeing as there was never really any meeting and he had no reason to be there other than the one that had already been fulfilled.  

All this fucking time, he’d been numbing down feeling, pretending not to have it.  After Casey, and then Andrew, he’d finally let himself have fear, anger, grief. He’d never anticipated a slew of indefinable emotions congregating inside his tired head at once.  

Remembering what had drawn him to jazz in the first place used to be so easy.  Now it was proving to be a more difficult task than it should be. Distance, time, or memory?  What was lost that left him unable to recall the exact moment? Regardless, it had been the exact thing he’d spent so much time running from; the way those musicians upon which he had built his dreams had expressed feeling, any number of feelings, with nothing but a dented old instrument and a dingy street corner.  How had he let himself get so far removed from the origin, the existence, the truth of the art form he had buried himself in?

He missed him.  The kid. 

How fucking dare he pull a stunt like that?  

His scent was still on his lapel, his taste lingering on his lips.  Soreness was starting to rear its ugly head in his shoulders, bruises undoubtedly starting to form where the kid had pushed him; but after all, his tendency to fight back had been part of his selling point.  

He walked into the hotel, up to the concierge, mind wandering into the darkest places, the coldest ones, where he knew he shouldn’t go.

“Bar in the room?”  He asked. 

“Yes sir.” 

That was all the information he really needed, so he just kept on wandering through getting his room key, handing over his credit card, the whole ordeal.  Checking out while he was checking in. 

* * *

Andrew took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on Angela’s door.  As it turns out, he didn’t have to.

The door opened abruptly and Angela tumbled out of it, a whirlwind of scarves being haphazardly strewn across her shoulders, jewelry jangling noisily, and pulling the strap of her bag more firmly around her.  When she looked up in this chaos, she smiled, perfect teeth flashing at him in blissfully ignorant pleasure. “Andrew!” 

She moved forward to pull him into a hug, still grinning ear to ear.  “I hadn’t heard from you in almost a week. I was starting to actually worry about your sorry ass.”  She said lightheartedly. 

His arms hesitantly made their way up to awkwardly and half heartedly return the embrace.  “Yeah, I...the last week of the tour was hectic. I just got home last night. At like one AM.”  

“Damn, so what are you doing up this early?  Shouldn’t you be recovering from your jet lag?”  She asked with a scoff, pulling back and looking at him fully. 

He cleared his throat, looking down and away from her to conceal his face, obviously portraying a lot less excitement about seeing her.  “Yeah,” He muttered, rubbing a hand nervously across the back of his neck. “I kinda just needed to talk to you about something. Are you busy?  Like, is this a bad time?” 

She looked down at her bag and keys in her hand, clearly on her way to work.  “Eh, I’m late all the time. Who cares?” She unlocked the door again and went inside, Andrew slowly to follow.

Even though he closed the door as gently as he could, it was the loudest thing he could imagine; despite the fact that he was a drummer by occupation.  His hand remained on the doorknob and his back turned to her long enough for her to catch wind of the fact that this wasn’t a pleasant conversation to be had.  

When he turned around finally, her expression had fallen and she took a couple steps back to sink into an armchair behind her, placing her hand on her forehead.  “Oh boy. What’s wrong?” She asked, a loaded question if he’d ever heard one. “What happened? Did you overdose? Did you get fired?” 

He could have easily laughed at that, but didn’t.  Instead he drew a long breath and faced her fully. “I haven’t been fair to you.”  

She pulled a face of amusement.  “Dude, did you sleep with someone else?  Cause you know...that’s allowed. We aren’t exactly an item, so to speak.”  

The seconds ticked by and he shook his head.  “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just-” He broke off and abandoned his initial reluctance to sit down, taking his place on the sofa across from her.  “I’m going through a rough time, I guess. I just, um, lost someone recently.” He was hesitant to say the word  _ breakup _ to describe the situation, though he knew that was fairly accurate.  She began to lean forward, concern in her face, clearly going to try her hand at comforting him but he stopped her before she could reach for him.  “The jist is I don’t think we should see each other.” He said bluntly. 

Her eyebrows furrowed.  “What?” She laughed uncomfortably and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.  “Like, why?” 

The conversation was all too familiar and he leaned forward, running his hands through his hair in distress.  “Because. Because I’ve been using you to try and fill an absence in my life, and that’s not fair. Because I really know that ultimately that’s not going to work.  You deserve to be more than somebody’s painkiller, and I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have.” 

She scoffed.  “Oh, yeah, and just up and abandoning me out of nowhere doesn’t do that.”  She huffed facetiously. “I should have fucking known you’d do something like this.  You were flighty before and you still are. I should have known not to give you a second chance.”  

He nodded and clasped his hands in front of him.  “I know. I know I’m the worst.” He said in genuine agreement.  “And maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better, but I know this is for the best.  You aren’t going to see it for a while because you’ll be busy being mad at me, but you’re really going to get hurt less if I just step back.  It’s...it’s going to be a prettier picture if I’m not in it.” 

“Right.”  She nodded, lips pressed tightly together in irritation.  “You’re doing the right thing. You’re being the good guy, and someday I’ll praise you for it.”  

He shook his head. “No, probably not.  But...I need to handle this in a way that isn’t going to be a wrecking ball with casualties.”  When he looked back at her, she was staring daggers into his eyes. 

Not much else was said before he decided he should go.

* * *

 

Step 1: Let Angela go.  Step 2: Detox.

As hard as it was to grow a pair and go talk to her in person rather than sending a text, or worse, ghosting her like before, this was harder.   

Turning back to larger than normal doses of adderall to help him still be mobile and productive throughout his withdrawals, did ease a bit of the fatigue.  Didn’t stop him being restless, though, and his energy was taking a huge hit, alongside his ability to focus. He’d wake up with the intention of practicing and end up doing something else, like watching a film or cooking until he didn’t have the drive to do anything else.  He was procrastinating on doing the one thing he actually cared to do. None of it was quite as bad as the headaches and nausea. He spent most of the day trying to concentrate on not vomiting.

His dad hadn’t said anything about the drugs when he picked him up at the airport, nor had he said anything during the first days he was home.  But who else could’ve told Fletcher? He highly doubted Marsalis would have called him rather than just talking to Andrew, considering his abhorrence of the man.  None of his band mates would have talked to Fletcher either, given the fact that most of them were either ex-students or had heard enough about him to know to avoid him at all costs.  More likely was that someone had contacted his father about it, especially with him being the youngest member of the band, and that his dad had turned to Fletcher in anger and being at a loss as to how to handle it.  

So he walked downstairs one of those mornings with all the coke and heroin he had in his possession, holding it openly and looking pointedly at his father as he dumped every last bit of it into the kitchen garbage can.  

His dad stared at him for a long moment, then at the can for an even longer one, before standing up and folding his newspaper.  “It’s trash day. I should go ahead and take all of this to the dumpster.” He said with the hint of a smile forming as he pulled the bag out of the can and tied it.  

Andrew sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, and when his father returned from the dumpster and washed his hands, he walked to him from the sink.  He placed a hand tentatively on Andrew’s shoulder. “If you need anything-” 

“I know.”  He answered, looking up him, somberness broken slightly by a glimmer of hope buried under layers upon layers of worry.  “I’ll come to you.” 

He was met with a smile, the hope that it contained drawing his own forward.  

* * *

Fall was halfway over, and he struggled with the knowledge that it had been nearly a year since Fletcher had left him and about two months since he’d seen him in Seattle.  Still, it had also been almost two months since he’d touched cocaine or heroin or anything of the like. He’d even made an appointment with a psychiatrist and gotten a proper prescription for adderall, something he was surprised she’d given him after he’d told her about his history with controlled substances.  

Rehearsals were going well.  His practice schedule had gotten back to normal, and not his “manic normal” but the normal it had been four years ago before he’d felt the need to be as infinitely expanding as capitalism.  He wasn’t free from anxiety attacks or crying spells in empty practice rooms at Lincoln Center, and paranoia had spiked since his withdrawal, specifically paranoia that everyone knew he was a junkie; that was especially ironic considering how little he cared about that exact thing when he was still using.  But he was doing better. 

There was no doubt now in his mind that Marsalis knew.  If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t ask him how he was every single rehearsal, something he didn’t do to the other members of the band.  He wouldn’t let him excuse himself from rehearsal without question or reprimand when he got anxious or nauseous, a side effect that was still lingering months later. Thankfully, he was handling it as non-judgmentally as his father was.

After rehearsal one evening, as he was walking to the bathroom, he heard someone walking up behind him.  His general disposition was to walk faster or to walk slower than someone near him, saving him the troubling situation of walking alongside someone awkwardly at the same speed.  However, she ended up passing him, and when she did, he saw who she was. 

“Oh, hey, Elizabeth!  How’s it going?” He called, for some reason excited to see the reporter who had done his profile months back.  He picked up his pace to do the exact thing he tended to avoid, in falling into step beside her. 

She glanced his way and smiled when she met his eyes.  “Oh, hello Andrew!” She sounded equally pleased to see him, which was stranger still.  “I’m doing alright. Not as much going on to write about midway through the season like this.”  She replied, tucking a loose strand of golden hair escaped from her bun behind her ear. “And yourself?”  

He shrugged.  “I’ve been better, but I mean who hasn’t?”  They made their way down the hall, and he didn’t even notice the absence of the anxiety that would generally be rising up within him at even the mere thought of interacting with someone lately.  

Elizabeth laughed shortly at that, adjusting the books and papers in her arms as they walked.  “I guess that’s true for most.” 

He looked over the load she was carrying.  “Can I carry that stuff for you? Looks kinda heavy.”  

“Oh, no.  I’m fine.”  But just as she said it, the weight of her armful became unbalanced and nearly all of it tumbled to the floor.  She stopped in her tracks and looked around at it all dejectedly. “I mean...maybe some of it.” She said with an embarrassed laugh.  

Andrew picked all of it up as it had fallen, insisting upon carrying all of it to her office for her.  He did wish he’d known her office was up four flights of stairs in a part of the building that didn’t have an elevator, but it wouldn’t have changed anything.  It wouldn’t have...  _ okay maybe I would have just carried half.   _

By the time they made it up to the office, he was decently winded and his grip on the books was slipping, but he maintained that he was okay even as she offered him a bottle of water.  He sat the stuff down on her desk and stepped back, taking a moment to catch his breath. They met eyes after a moment, and both cracked up at the absurdity of it. 

“You...”  He inhaled.  “You were going to carry all of that up by yourself?”  

She shrugged.  “Yeah. I do it all the time.  You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve got guns of  _ steel  _ under this...this.. Turtleneck.”  

He smiled and shook his head.  “I’ll take your word for it.” 

A moment passed, and he lingered.  Eventually, she cleared her throat.  “So, um...would you want to get a drink?”  

He shrugged.  “I mean, sure.  What kind did you want?  Where’s the vending machine on this floor?”  

She raised her eyebrows and smiled, fighting back laughter.  “Oh, Andrew no. I was actually inviting you out? Later on, tonight.  Like...eight maybe?” 

He blinked and covered his face with his hands.  “Oh my God, that’s so embarrassing.” He managed to get out, the sentiment of which was strengthened by her then uncontained giggles.  

* * *

Against his better judgment, he agreed.  Sure, he’d broken things off with Angela a few months prior, but that was different.  He was using her, in more ways than one, not to mention they were bad for each other; he had his drug problems, she had drugs.  She had her self destruction, he was an enabler. The list went on.

Elizabeth was different. 

He learned a lot about her that evening.  She was not a natural blonde, as it happened.  She was from Jersey, liked horseback riding, movie buff, Jewish, wanted to be an playwright when she was a teenager, “but I decided to major in journalism because it’s a little more stable.”  

“Do you still write plays?”  He asked, sipping the one glass of wine he was limiting himself to.  

“Sometimes.”  She answered. “I really just have one that I work on anymore.  I’ve been working on it for a few years.” 

The evening passed pleasantly, her telling him nearly everything about herself and him telling her a very carefully limited amount about himself.   Some things were safe: He was from Brooklyn, grew up in a male dominated Jewish family, didn’t know his mother, started playing drums when he was six years old, loved pizza, loved New York, was bisexual, didn’t have any hobbies outside of music, and drank an obscene amount of coffee.  Some things were drawn out by her questions, a few offered up voluntarily. Of course, there was plenty he couldn’t justify telling her: His relationship with Fletcher, alcoholism, drug addiction, drunk driving accident, and the fact that he was living with his father were all out of bounds.

“I can’t believe you don’t do anything but drum.  Like how do you occupy yourself in your free time?”  She questioned. 

Andrew blinked and shrugged.  “...Drumming?” He laughed when she rolled her eyes.  “I mean, I like movies too. I watch a movie at least once a week most of the time.  Lately I’ve only been re-watching ones I’ve already seen.”

“I live in the past sometimes too.”  

“What?”  His eyebrows knitted together.  That was a loaded statement. What could she mean like that?  Had word gotten around to her about him and Fletcher too? She was a reporter after all; what if she was only going out with him to get more information about the ordeal and publish a story about it?  

“I just mean ‘cause a lot of people turn to comfort movies when they’re nostalgic.”  She answered. “Whenever I feel sad I watch Labyrinth. Or Mrs. Doubtfire. I used to watch those with my uncle when I would visit him in the hospital before he died.”  

“Ah.”  He nodded.  “Yeah. I guess...I guess I get that.  I watch mobster movies and old comedies a lot.  You know, Jack Lemmon, Jerry Lewis, Bob Hope and all that.”

“I’m from the same city as Jerry Lewis!”  

He learned more and more every minute.  

* * *

 

His life moved slowly in the absence of the kind of catalyst he’d allowed himself to get used to.  Still, some things moved fast. October went by, and he saw Elizabeth more and more, eventually seeing her at least four nights a week.  On top of that, he found an apartment in Chelsea across from some old, historic hotel. A one bedroom on the third floor. Adjusting from the size of both Fletcher’s house and his father’s house to a 700 square foot apartment was very much like he was back in his dorm.  Once he had his own place, Elizabeth started staying over every night they went out. It made him feel good about himself to be out on his own. 

Maybe it made him feel a little too good about himself, because then, he made the ill conceived decision to do something stupid.  Mind-numbingly stupid, and exactly the opposite of the goal he’d had in mind when he broke things off with Angela. 

He and Elizabeth sat across from each other at Nowell’s, which he frequented though he knew it wasn’t the best way to move on.  He felt Fletcher’s shadow in every corner of the restaurant, especially when the servers gave him curious looks every time he came in without the man.

“I don’t actually know a lot about jazz on a technical level.”  She said thoughtfully, watching the trio onstage, and drawing his attention back to her.  “I mean obviously I work really closely with the jazz band and I know some basic stuff, and I know a few artists here and there, but beyond that I don’t have a clue.”  

He nodded, nervously dabbing at the sweat on his brow.  “Do you like jazz?” 

“Yeah, I love it.”  She answered, turning her eyes back to him. 

He shrugged.  “Then that’s all you need to know, honestly.  Anyone who isn’t a jazz musician really just needs to enjoy it.  The more you notice, the harder it is to do that.” 

She lowered her eyebrows in concern at his seemingly distressed expression.  “Andrew, are you okay?” 

He nodded and smiled past his anxiety.  “Yeah, just...I’m about to do something dumb.”  

“What?”  

“I love you.”  He said suddenly.  

Her eyebrows unfurrowed and her mouth dropped open for a moment, and for that moment he was terrified he’d made a mistake.  But that quickly dissipated when she smiled jovially and reached out to take his hand. “I gotta say, I wasn’t expecting you to say that first.  But I love you too.” 

“Oh thank God.”  He said with a nervous chuckle.  “Okay. Okay, cool.” He cleared his throat and took a swallow of his wine.  “Good. That makes the dumb thing less terrifying to do.” 

She blinked.  “Oh, that wasn’t the dumb thing?”  

He shook his head.  “Okay, now this is going to sound really, really crazy.  But you just have to hear me out. Don’t freak out on me.”  While she stared at him in mildly frightened anticipation, he reached into his jacket pocket and procured a small, blue, velvet box, setting it on the table in front of her with little flair.  

She looked from the box, to him, to the box, to him.  “What...what is that?” She asked curiously, not making the quick deduction he’d anticipated based on the size of the box.  

“Well it’s... it’s a piece of jewelry.”  He replied. “But it’s like a pretty specific kind.”  

She smiled in amusement.  “Oh no, did you get me a purity ring?  Again with this? It’s like the UJA summer camp all over again.”  

“Actually, it’s...”  He broke off and took a breath to steady himself.  “You’d better just open it.” 

She reached out and picked up the box, opening it and gasping, almost immediately fumbling and dropping it back down on the table.  

He smiled sheepishly.  “You know...um, what if we got married?” He said softly so as not to draw the attention of other tables, knowing this was a long shot and potentially embarrassing.   _ Probably embarrassing. _

“What?”  She glanced around at the others around them before leaning in closer to whisper.  “Are you messing with me?” 

“I’m not.” 

“Are you kidding me?”  

“Nope.”  

Her next sentence was preceded by a long moment of confused silence, her mouth opening and closing but without the words to say.  “Andrew, we have only been dating for three months.” 

“I know.”  He nodded. “And I know this is sudden and crazy and...probably a little scary.” 

“A lot scary.”  She corrected. 

He shrugged.  “I just...I love you.  And when I think about being married to you someday, it makes me really happy.”   _ Okay, her face is softening.  Good sign. She’s going to say no, but maybe she’ll still go out with you.   _ “I know it’s insane.  But we work. We’re good for each other, and we’re both creative, and we have so much in common.”  

She sat back again, looking down at the red tablecloth in front of them.  She didn’t look upset or scared; just contemplative.  _ Probably contemplating just exactly how she’s going to sneak out of the restaurant without you noticing.   _

Elizabeth sighed.  “You’re supposed to ask my father for permission.”  

Andrew recoiled.  “No, you have to ask permission to marry someone, not to propose to someone.”

She met his eyes again.  “Yeah. Right.” 

He stared at her, his own eyes widening as he connected the dots.  “What...wait, is that yes? Are you saying yes?” 

She smiled in amusement.  “I can’t even imagine how angry my mother is going to be.”  

His relief that he hadn’t been laughed out of the restaurant was palpable and he let out a long sigh.  Then, excitement set in. He picked the ring box back up and looked between her and the floor. “Do you want,” he pointed at the floor.  “Do you want me to do the thing?” 

She snorted.  “Yeah, you can do the thing.”  

He quickly, too quickly, swiveled out of his chair and dropped to his knee, wincing at the contact.  “Oy, that is going to be a massive bruise tomorrow.” As she laughed at his lack of poise, he opened the box properly and held it out towards her.  “Elizabeth Dorsey,” he said shakily, the extra glass of wine doing little to dissuade him of just how stupid this probably was, “will you marry me?  Dumbass that I may be?”

She grinned, and after a moment of making him wait for it, reached out and slid the ring onto her finger, shrugging. “Yeah, sure.”  

Cheers erupted, waiters rushed over with congratulation, and now to finish the complimentary bottle of champagne, a task he accomplished almost entirely on his own.  

 


End file.
